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He was half tempted to squander a few cents and go to Coney Island or up the Hudson, somewhere, anywhere to get out of the grinding noisy tempestuous city, whose sin and burden pressed upon his heart night and day because of that from which he had been saved; and of that from which he had not the power to save others.

He saw two boys in khaki approaching with lanterns and in the dim light of these he could distinguish a dozen or so khaki-clad figures perched along a fence. "Where are we at, anyway?" he finally managed to ask. "Just inside the village," one of the Americans answered. "What village?" "Coney Island on the subway," one of the boys on the fence called. "Cantigny," some one nearer to him said.

Sir Ralph does not seem to make the light so strong, though he does not absolutely say it was otherwise. Perhaps Evelyn speaks of a later hour. The flames appear to have become visible afterwards to the distance of forty miles. Edit. About 150 years since, there was in France one Captain Coney, a gallant gentleman of ancient extraction, and Governor of Coney Castle.

The people to our left have been blazing away like Coney Island, but Rena's guide says the ferns are full of rabbits that way, and Major Belwether can't hit fur afoot. You," she added frankly to Siward, "ought to take the cup. The birches ahead of you are full of woodcock. If you don't, Howard Quarrier will. He's into a flight of jack-snipe I hear."

I knew that Coney was an island, and that it was a place where people had to be attracted and distracted somehow, and I decided that these illuminations were a device of the pleasure-mongers of Coney. And when the ship began to salute these illuminations with answering flares I thought the captain was a rather good-natured man to consent thus to amuse the populace.

"Folks don't lift up their hearts like that in this part of the world." And turning aside, he said in undertones, "Who is the young man? Scotch, d'ye say?" "Yes, straight from the mountains of Scotland, I believe," replied Coney. Young Farfrae repeated the last verse. It was plain that nothing so pathetic had been heard at the Three Mariners for a considerable time.

Beyond it lay the naked coral reefs, the empty sky, and the ragged palms of Porto Banos. Livingstone felt that his legation was slipping from him. "That wireless operator," he continued hastily, "tells me there is a most amusing place a few miles down the coast, Las Bocas, a sort of Coney Island, where the government people go for the summer. There's surf bathing and roulette and cafes chantants.

Where they met is not known by anyone, but they started about four o'clock and drove through Prospect Park to the Coney Island boulevard. The day was fine and many fashionable turnouts and flashy rigs were on the road. Mrs.

She had come from a machine, and her mother stood near. She was not a Coney Islander. She was first-cabin certainly silk stockings on her thin ankles, sheer white frock; no jewelry. She took a snapshot of the four boys to their discomfiture and walked away while they were still writhing. "That for mine!" said the Red Un in one of his rare enthusiasms.

Now our friend, the baron, again. No, better to leave. He has left his smile in the wings this time. He is very serious or perhaps very tired. Two times tonight to play. Too much too much. My hat, and I will walk out on his nobs. And, anyway, Huneker wrote the story long ago. About a piano player in Coney Island that he called what was it? Oh, yes, "A Chopin of the Gutter."