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I'm obliged to you for giving me a hint of my danger, I suppose! And I don't propose to say any more." "Neither do I," said Bryce. "I only came to tell you." And therewith, having successfully done all that he wanted to do, he walked out of the room and the house, and Ransford, standing in the window, his hands thrust in his pockets, watched him go away across the Close.
Instantly out of the shadows George Sea Otter came padding on velvet feet, rifle in hand and then Bryce understood. "All right, boss," said George simply as he joined Bryce and Ogilvy under the lee of the locomotive. "Now we get busy again." "Safe-o, men," Ogilvy called. "Back to the job."
Ogilvy's return to Sequoia following his three-weeks tour in search of rights of way for the N. C. O. was heralded by a visit from him to Bryce Cardigan at the latter's office. As he breasted the counter in the general office, Moira McTavish left her desk and came over to see what the visitor desired. "I should like to see Mr. Bryce Cardigan," Buck began in crisp businesslike accents.
He bent down quickly and picked up the loam-encrusted object that Cumshaw had dropped in the first moment of the encounter, Cumshaw followed his movements with troubled eyes, but did not interfere in any way. Bryce could see that the thing was a bit of wood, and on one piece of it, where the earth had been scraped off, there were letters scratched.
When you return to Sequoia, I'll have a few more points to give you. I'll mull them over in the meantime." When Bryce Cardigan walked down the gang-plank at the steamship-dock in San Francisco, the first face he saw among the waiting crowd was Buck Ogilvy's. Mr.
Bryce has noticed the rapid change in the practice of England on this point: "As late as the general elections of 1868 and 1874 nearly all candidates offered themselves to the constituency, though some professed to do so in pursuance of requisitions emanating from the electors.
"Catchee trouble for wifee no got." He extended his wrists, meeting the angry glare of the Chief Inspector with a smile of resignation. Kerry bit savagely at his chewing-gum, glancing aside at Bryce. "Did you ever see his wife?" he snapped. "No, sir. I didn't know he had one." "No habgotchee," murmured Sin Sin Wa, "velly bad woman."
But his choice between the Harvard professorship and The Nation was a wise one. He was a born writer of paragraphs and editorials. The files of The Nation are his monument. A crown of his laborious days is the tribute of James Bryce: "The Nation was the best weekly not only in America but in the world."
James Bryce, fresh from England, delving into the complexities and incongruities of American politics at about this time, wrote that "these railway kings are among the greatest men, perhaps I may say, the greatest men in America," which term, "greatest," was a ludicrously reverent way of describing their qualities.
The hall boy had to find someone to go on watch. Time was moving. The tea was at five. The Bryce apartment was a mile away, and the chug of that taxi by the door moved me impulsively toward the elevator.
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