“Strain!” he snorted. “Simple as A, B, C! Mathematical certainty!”
He seemed to brace himself up and lean backward against the air as he stared at me. “How about this here tide that’s rushin’ out through the Golden Gate?” he demanded, or bellowed, rather. “How fast is she ebbin’? What’s the drift, eh? Listen to that, will you? A bell buoy, and we’re atop of it! See ’em alterin’ the course!”
From out of the fog came the mournful tolling of a bell, and I could see the pilot turning the wheel with great rapidity. The bell, which had seemed straight ahead, was now sounding from the side. Our own whistle was blowing hoarsely, and from time to time the sound of other whistles came to us from out of the fog.
-“That’s a ferryboat of some sort,” the newcomer said, indicating a whistle off to the right. “And there! D’ye hear that? Blown by mouth. Some scow schooner, most likely. Better watch out, Mr. Schooner-man. Ah, I thought so. Now hell’s a poppin’ for somebody!”
+“That’s a ferryboat of some sort,” the newcomer said, indicating a whistle off to the right. “And there! D’ye hear that? Blown by mouth. Some scow schooner, most likely. Better watch out, Mr. Schooner-man. Ah, I thought so. Now hell’s a poppin’ for somebody!”
The unseen ferryboat was blowing blast after blast, and the mouth-blown horn was tooting in terror-stricken fashion.
“And now they’re payin’ their respects to each other and tryin’ to get clear,” the red-faced man went on, as the hurried whistling ceased.
His face was shining, his eyes flashing with excitement as he translated into articulate language the speech of the horns and sirens. “That’s a steam siren a-goin’ it over there to the left. And you hear that fellow with a frog in his throat—a steam schooner as near as I can judge, crawlin’ in from the Heads against the tide.”
diff --git a/tests/data/build/text/chapter-2.xhtml b/tests/data/build/text/chapter-2.xhtml index b61b5d49..641915c2 100644 --- a/tests/data/build/text/chapter-2.xhtml +++ b/tests/data/build/text/chapter-2.xhtml @@ -15,11 +15,11 @@“An’ ’ow yer feelin’ now, sir?” he asked, with the subservient smirk which comes only of generations of tip-seeking ancestors.
For reply, I twisted weakly into a sitting posture, and was helped by Yonson to my feet. The rattle and bang of the frying pan was grating horribly on my nerves. I could not collect my thoughts. Clutching the woodwork of the galley for support—and I confess the grease with which it was scummed put my teeth on edge—I reached across a hot cooking-range to the offending utensil, unhooked it, and wedged it securely into the coal box.
The cook grinned at my exhibition of nerves, and thrust into my hand a steaming mug with an “ ’Ere, this’ll do yer good.” It was a nauseous mess—ship’s coffee—but the heat of it was revivifying. Between gulps of the molten stuff I glanced down at my raw and bleeding chest and turned to the Scandinavian.
-“Thank you, Mr. Yonson,” I said; “but don’t you think your measures were rather heroic?”
+“Thank you, Mr. Yonson,” I said; “but don’t you think your measures were rather heroic?”
It was because he understood the reproof of my action, rather than of my words, that he held up his palm for inspection. It was remarkably calloused. I passed my hand over the horny projections, and my teeth went on edge once more from the horrible rasping sensation produced.
“My name is Johnson, not Yonson,” he said, in very good, though slow, English, with no more than a shade of accent to it.
There was mild protest in his pale blue eyes, and withal a timid frankness and manliness that quite won me to him.
-“Thank you, Mr. Johnson,” I corrected, and reached out my hand for his.
+“Thank you, Mr. Johnson,” I corrected, and reached out my hand for his.
He hesitated, awkward and bashful, shifted his weight from one leg to the other, then blunderingly gripped my hand in a hearty shake.
“Have you any dry clothes I may put on?” I asked the cook.
“Yes, sir,” he answered, with cheerful alacrity. “I’ll run down an’ tyke a look over my kit, if you’ve no objections, sir, to wearin’ my things.”
diff --git a/tests/data/formatting/in/endnotes.xhtml b/tests/data/formatting/in/endnotes.xhtml index 4ec313b2..7487eacb 100644 --- a/tests/data/formatting/in/endnotes.xhtml +++ b/tests/data/formatting/in/endnotes.xhtml @@ -12,7 +12,7 @@Philip Stanhope, second Earl of Chesterfield, ob. 1713, æt. suæ 80. We learn, from the memoir prefixed to his Printed Correspondence, that he fought three duels, disarming and wounding his first and second antagonists, and killing the third. The name of the unfortunate gentleman who fell on this occasion was Woolly. Lord Chesterfield, absconding, went to Breda, where he obtained the royal pardon from Charles II. He acted a busy part in the eventful times in which he lived, and was remarkable for his steady adherence to the Stuarts. Lord Chesterfield’s letter to Charles II, and the King’s answer granting the royal pardon, occur in the Correspondence published by General Sir John Murray, in 1829.
-“Jan. 17th, 1659. The Earl of Chesterfield and Dr. Woolly’s son of Hammersmith, had a quarrel about a mare of eighteen pounds price; the quarrel would not be reconciled, insomuch that a challenge passed between them. They fought a duel on the backside of Mr. Colby’s house at Kensington, where the Earl and he had several passes. The Earl wounded him in two places, and would fain have then ended, but the stubbornness and pride of heart of Mr. Woolly would not give over, and the next pass [he] was killed on the spot. The Earl fled to Chelsea, and there took water and escaped. The jury found it chance-medley.”
+“Jan. 17th, 1659. The Earl of Chesterfield and Dr. Woolly’s son of Hammersmith, had a quarrel about a mare of eighteen pounds price; the quarrel would not be reconciled, insomuch that a challenge passed between them. They fought a duel on the backside of Mr. Colby’s house at Kensington, where the Earl and he had several passes. The Earl wounded him in two places, and would fain have then ended, but the stubbornness and pride of heart of Mr. Woolly would not give over, and the next pass [he] was killed on the spot. The Earl fled to Chelsea, and there took water and escaped. The jury found it chance-medley.”
Rugge’s Diurnal, Addit MSS., British Museum.
—B. ↩
diff --git a/tests/data/formatting/in/inline.xhtml b/tests/data/formatting/in/inline.xhtml index 0e00a8a2..7001543c 100644 --- a/tests/data/formatting/in/inline.xhtml +++ b/tests/data/formatting/in/inline.xhtml @@ -4,7 +4,7 @@Mr. Brown knew everything The Post had published.
+Mr. Brown knew everything The Post had published.