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I kind of lay a good deal of it to that fool hard-boiled hat. At any rate, he snorted and sagged back on the rope, hit a yucca point, whirled and made off. Artie was game. He hung on until he was drug into a bunch of chollas, and then he had to let go. Badger departed into the distance, tail up and snorting. "Well, you've done it now!"

If man only knew how heavily a flouted woman, after she has safely won him, does make him pay for his bad taste, he would be more careful. But Artie never knew. He sat there, listening to the biting words which passed back and forth between Flora and Cary, without his modesty permitting him to realize that he was the stake these two clever girls were throwing mental dice for.

Why, Faith, she's really, Faith, she's the only girl in the world, now isn't she?" "So I've thought for years!" I cried, warmly. "Talk about love being instantaneous," said Artie, plunging his hands into his pockets, and striding up and down. "I've loved her and loved her hard ever since she explained what love meant to her that night at your dinner.

"That is a cruel, ascetic conception of love. It makes me shiver, like reading the New Testament." For the first time Artie spoke. "You prefer, then, the Song of Solomon?" And the Angel brought his hand down on the table a little heavily, and looked at me. "Yes, I do!" laughed Flora, thinking she had scored. "And I know because I have loved!"

"You're joking," said Arthur, when he was able to articulate; "and a mighty poor joke it is. Dory! Why, Del, it's ridiculous. And in place of Ross Whitney!" "Be careful what you say, Artie," she warned in a quiet, ominous tone, with that in her eyes which should in prudence have halted him. "I am engaged to Dory, remember." "Nonsense!" cried Arthur.

"I have good cause to think he's trying to kill me," I replied. He produced a pocketbook, fumbled in it for a moment, and laid before me a clipping. It was from the Want column of a newspaper, and read as follows: A.A.B. Will deal with you on your terms. "A.A.B. that's me Artie Brower. And H.H. that's him Henry Hooper," he explained.

Of the many interpreters of the South I need mention only three: Mr. Cable, Mr. Chandler Harris. Chicago has several novelists of her own: for example, Mr. Henry Fuller, author of The Cliff Dwellers, Mr. Will Payne, and that close student of Chicago slang, Mr. George Ade, the author of Artie. The Middle West counts such novelists as Miss "Octave Thanet" and Mr.

To go about the world and get education and manners and culture, and then to come back to Saint X and take up with a jay a fellow that's never been anywhere." "Physically, he hasn't traveled much," said Del, her temper curiously and suddenly restored. "But mentally, Artie, dear, he's been distances and to places and in society that your poor brain would ache just at hearing about."

I had not thought of the English groom as a man of resource, but his action in this emergency proved him. He cast a fleeting glance over his shoulder. Artie Brower was huddled down in his armchair practically out of sight; Miss Emory and I had reseated ourselves in the only other two chairs in the room, so that we were in the same relative positions as when we had been bound and left.

Have you and Artie been playing tennis?" "No, he found me at home. Estelle Wilmot and I were playing with a microscope." "Estelle she has treated me shamefully," said Adelaide. "I haven't seen her for more than a year except just a glimpse as I was driving down Monroe Street one day. How beautiful she has become! But, then, she always was pretty.