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"I'll mash him, dat's wot I'll do," answered Jack Sagger. He was a big, rawboned lad, several inches taller than Joe. His face was freckled, and his lips discolored by cigarette smoking. He was a thoroughly tough boy and it was a wonder that he had ever been allowed to work in the hotel at all. He had a fairly good home, but only went there to sleep and to get his meals.

"Maybe it's better in this sort of weather. Let us send Susan out for a bottle of claret?" The German took down the little leather bag and turned it upside down. A threepenny-piece and a penny rolled out. "Dat's all," he said. "Not enough for claret." "But there is for beer," cried the major radiantly. "Bedad, it's just the time for a quart of fourpinny.

"Do you mean to say that Mose has run away?" cried Marcy and his mother in concert. "Yes, sar, missus; dat's what I mean," replied Julius. Marcy was much surprised to hear it, but after all it was nothing more nor less than he had predicted when the war first broke out.

I-doom-er-ker-kum mer-ker!" "What is that?" "Dat's Tarrypin talk, dat is. Bless yo' soul, honey," continued the old man, brightening up, "w'en you git ole ez me w'en you see w'at I sees, en year w'at I years de creeturs dat you can't talk wid'll be mighty skase dey will dat.

She IS a Yankee!" "They'se done somethin' to my missy," decided Estralla. "They'se scairt her." She ran down the path toward the wall at the end of the garden, and stopped suddenly; for right in front of her, caught on the jessamine vine which grew over the wall, she saw a fluttering blue ribbon. "Dat's off'n Missy Sylvia's hair, dat ribbon is," she whispered, reaching up for it.

Lively, boy!" "I'se runnin', sah, dat's whut I'se doin'! I'se runnin'!" And Shag's hands fairly trembled with eagerness, while the colonel, opening a little green book, read: "Of recreation there is none So free as fishing is alone; All other pastimes do no less Than mind and body both possess; My hand alone my work can do, So I can fish and study too!"

"Whatever has come o' yo' Essex blood? Dat's what I can't understan'. En it ain't on'y jist Essex blood dat's in you, not by a long sight 'deed it ain't!

Dat's whut I'se askin' yo' all, Bert an' Nan? Where is dem two little lambkins?" Bert looked at Nan and Nan looked at Bert. It was a puzzle. What had become of Flossie and Freddie between the time they disappeared under the sliding pile of hay and now, when it had been cleared away to another part of the barn. "I saw them playing on the floor," said Nan.

Dat two Mass' George, and on'y one for Pomp, an' I so dreffle hungly, I mose eat bit a 'gator." "There'll be plenty," I said. "I shall only eat one." "Eh? Mass' George on'y eat one duck-bird?" "That's all." "Mass' George sure?" "Yes. Let's cook them." "But is Mass' George quite sure?" "Yes yes yes!" "Oh! Den Mass' George hab dis bewfler one wid um green head. Dat's biggess and bess."

Tom Anderson hesitated a moment, and then said: "Now, boys, I'll tell you all 'bout it. But you's got to be mighty mum 'bout it. It won't do to let de cat outer de bag." "Dat's so! But tell us wat you yered. We ain't gwine to say nuffin to nobody." "Well," said Tom, "las' night ole Marster had company. Two big ginerals, and dey was hoppin' mad.