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Splendid dwellings were going up all over the place, the road makers were exceedingly busy, and hammers of the stone-knappers rattled an incessant fusillade. Nickie the Kid came to Banklands one pleasant summer day, watched the busy people with a desultory sort of interest, and moralised within himself. "Do these people expect to live a thousand years?" mused Mr.
Nickie put in a couple of days skirmishing at Banklands, and fared well, but as there was no hotel in the suburb Nicholas did not contemplate making a lengthy stay.
When all the guests had left the white mansion at Banklands, and daylight was streaming in, a weary man-servant interviewed the master of "Whitecliff." "Please, sir," he said; "the eh gentleman who was thrown out last night." "Well, what of him?" asked the host, disgustedly. "He's sleeping in the garden, sir." The host went out.
However, at Banklands Nickie solicited work, laborious and painful work. Moreover, he went to the job of his own free will, when sober and in his right mind. This seemed to imply an awakening of conscience, a dawning sense of his utter uselessness to the body politic, and a desire to figure as a useful member of society. On the other hand, it may have been a symptom of brain-softening.
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