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A Middy of the Slave Squadron by Harry Collingwood

Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England

A Middy of the Slave Squadron A West African Story

By Harry Collingwood ________________________________________________________________________ This was one of the last books written by "Harry Collingwood". The copy we worked from was very clearly printed, but with one very major problem - the text was printed far too close to the centre of the book. Therefore the book could not be scanned using the regular book-scanner, but rather it was done using the scanner in flat-bed mode. However, the results were quite good, with the text coming through very clearly, and only the hyphens needing a good amount of checking. The hyphens get affected by the cleaning-up process which takes out the unwanted dark patches on the scans.

The book is exactly according to the title. Remembering that "Harry Collingwood" was in real life a naval architect, you can take good note of the way he handles nautical terminology. Other contemporary authors were good, but in this respect Collingwood is a real master.

It makes a good audiobook, so you ought to enjoy it very greatly. NH. ________________________________________________________________________ A MIDDY OF THE SLAVE SQUADRON A WEST AFRICAN STORY

BY HARRY COLLINGWOOD

CHAPTER ONE.

A SOUND THROUGH THE DARKNESS.

"Phew!" ejaculated Mr Perry, first lieutenant of His Britannic Majesty's corvette _Psyche_, as he removed his hat and mopped the perspiration from his streaming forehead with an enormous spotted pocket-handkerchief. "I believe it's getting hotter instead of cooler; although, by all the laws that are supposed to govern this pestiferous climate, we ought to be close upon the coolest hour of the twenty-four! Just step aft to the skylight, Mr Fortescue, and see what the time is, will ye? It must surely be nearing two bells."

"Ay, ay, sir!" I dutifully answered; and, moving aft to the skylight, raised the canvas cover which had been placed over it to mask the light of the low-turned lamp which was kept burning all night in the fore cabin, and glanced at the clock which, screwed to the coaming on one side of the tell-tale compass, balanced the barometer which, hung in gimbals, was suspended on the other side. The clock marked the time as two minutes to five a.m., or within two minutes of two bells in the morning watch.

Dropping the canvas screen back into place, I was about to announce the time to my superior officer, when I thought I caught, through the faint creak of the ship's timbers and the light rustling of the canvas aloft, a slight, far off sound, like the squeak of a sheave on a rusty pin. Therefore, instead of proclaiming the time aloud, I stepped quietly to the side of the first luff, and asked, almost in a whisper--


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