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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Rivers of Ice, by R.M. Ballantyne This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Rivers of Ice Author: R.M. Ballantyne Release Date: June 6, 2007 [EBook #21698] Language: English Character set encoding: ASCII *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RIVERS OF ICE *** Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England RIVERS OF ICE, BY R.M. BALLANTYNE. CHAPTER ONE. THE ROVER'S RETURN. On a certain summer morning, about the middle of the present century, a big bluff man, of seafaring aspect, found himself sauntering in a certain street near London Bridge. He was a man of above fifty, but looked under forty in consequence of the healthful vigour of his frame, the freshness of his saltwater face, and the blackness of his shaggy hair. Although his gait, pilot-cloth coat, and pocketed hands proclaimed him a sailor, there were one or two contradictory points about him. A huge beard and moustache savoured more of the diggings than the deep, and a brown wide-awake with a prodigiously broad brim suggested the backwoods. Pausing at the head of one of those narrow lanes which--running down between warehouses, filthy little rag and bone shops, and low poverty-stricken dwellings--appear to terminate their career, not unwillingly, in the Thames, the sailor gazed before him with nautical earnestness for a few seconds, then glanced at the corner house for a name; found no name; cast his eyes up to the strip of blue sky overhead, as if for inspiration; obtained none; planted his legs wide apart as if he had observed a squall coming, and expected the lane to lurch heavily--wrinkled his eyebrows, and pursed his lips. "Lost yer bearin's, capp'n?" exclaimed a shrill pert voice at his side. The seaman looked down, and beheld a small boy with a head like a disorderly door-mat, and garments to match. He stood in what may be styled an imitative attitude, with his hands thrust into his ragged pockets, his little legs planted wide apart, his cap thrust well back on his head, and his eyebrows wrinkled. He also pursed his lips to such an extent that they resembled a rosebud in a dirty bush. "Yes, imp," replied the seaman--he meant to have said "impudence," but
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