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CHAPTER VIII
At the Eleventh Hour
erritt, in his tent, was busily bringing his journal down to date. The lamplight fell unsparingly on his grey face, weather-worn and with tired eyes, and flung a distorted shadow of him on the tent wall behind him. He wrote slowly, making no corrections, methodical, thorough, as in all his doings. The journal was a marvel of brevity and conciseness. His pen was finishing the sentence—"which I wish to present to the National Museum, in Washington, D. C.,
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