Survivor: South Pacific

“No,” Meade said. “Give it to him, Ogle. He needs it more than either of us.”

Ogle nodded, tossed the fish to Peasbury, who caught it and proceeded to devour it, scales and all.

Shaking his head, Ogle stood to his full height of nearly six feet. “Perhaps there’s more where that one came from.” He grabbed his harpoon, preparing to leave the grove of gnarled scrub trees the survivors called home. Beneath Ogle’s bush of a beard hung the spearpoint, a symbol of his roots upon the earth—he’d found it while plowing the earth on a hardscrabble Vermont farm—as well as the seaborne profession he’d taken to so adeptly. He was the most accurate harpooner Meade had ever seen.

“If there are, you’ll get them,” Meade said.

“A dip of water, please, sir!” Peasbury said, gasping.

“Shut your mouth,” said Ogle.





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