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"I suppose," said Constance, stencilling away at bright pink petals, "it's our lot. But it's very beastly." "What's our lot?" asked her sister. "Slavery! Downtroddenness! When I think of it I feel all over boot marks men's boots. We hide it bravely, but so it is. Damn! I've splashed." Miss Miniver's manner became impressive.
As it was, the toe of his boot caught me just below the knee-cap and I could not stifle a cry of pain. However, the kick did not stop the blow I landed straight from the shoulder and it gave me some satisfaction, even at the time, to note that Paul's howl of agony was much louder than mine as he picked himself up from the other end of the cockpit.
Starr was sitting on the side of his bed with one boot off and dangling in his hand, and with his thoughts gone journeying out over the mesa and the desert and the granite ridge beyond, to a squatty, two-room adobe shack at the head of Sunlight Basin.
The parapet was evenly built up, the firing step had been partly restored, and in the Snout there were good emplacements for the machine guns. Certain unpleasant reminders were still to be found if one looked for them. In the Snout a large fat boot stuck stiffly from the side of the trench.
"The coach and four is now waiting with the bride's outfit already packed in the boot; so bride, bridesmaid and waiting-woman will please take their places," laughed Abner, happily, helping Betsy, Susan and Rache into the sledge.
"If thou wilt," said the Bedouin, "take her up to Prince Sherkan, son of King Omar ben Ennuman, lord of Baghdad and of the land of Khorassan, and I will agree to whatever conditions thou mayst impose on me; for when he sees her, she will surely please him, and he will pay thee her price and a good profit to boot for thyself."
You can't go home to Texas and again be respected among men. This outfit you are with will promise you the earth, but the moment that they're through with you, you won't cut any more figure than a last year's bird's nest. They'll throw you aside like an old boot, and you'll fall so hard that you'll hear the clock tick in China.
He began it by greasing his whole person carefully and smoothly over with buffalo fat, until he shone like a patent leather boot; then he rubbed himself almost dry, leaving the skin sleek and glossy.
Then for nearly ten minutes he smoked an odd recreation for a man suffering from the cigars of last night and after that, for nearly as long again, he seemed lost in deep thought, his eyes upon the misty grass before him, and his small French boot beating time to the music of his thoughts. Several groups passed close by him, in their pleasant circuit.
"There was Peg Barney sittin' on the groun' in his shirt wan shoe off an' wan shoe on whackin' a tent-peg over the head wid his boot, an' singin' fit to wake the dead. 'Twas no clane song that he sung, though. 'Twas the Divil's Mass." "What's that?" I asked.
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