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His feet took him to the house of his friend, Knivett, with whom he spent a pleasant evening, the topics of conversation turning chiefly upon the glories of Port Natal, and Roland's recent adventure with Hopper. Had anything been wanted to put the finishing touch to Roland's resolution, that little adventure would have supplied it. It was past ten when he returned home.
"I guess I know a mule from a Newfoundland dog by this time," said he. "Wal, I jest reckon," asserted Mr. Ford, with a loud laugh. "Cap'n Wentworth, allow me to make you acquainted with Mr. Hopper. Mr. Hopper, Cap'n Wentworth." The Captain squeezed Mr. Hoppers hand with fervor. "You interested in mules, Mr. Hopper?" asked the military man. "I don't cal'late to be," said. Mr. Hopper.
"Let me give thee a piece of advice," said Friend Hopper. "It's a very hot day, and bating is warm work. I'm thinking thou had'st better put it off till the cool o' the morning." The men, of course, became cooler before they had done listening to this playful remonstrance. Once, when he was travelling in the stage, they passed a number of Irishmen with cart-loads of stones, to mend the road.
"Well," continued the Colonel, "I have been rather pushed the last week, and Hopper managed things for this dance. He got the music, and saw the confectioner. But he made such a close bargain with both of 'em that they came around to me afterward," he added, laughing. "Is he coming here to-night?" demanded the Captain, looking disgusted.
There are always men who wish to compel such characters to submit, by the pressure of circumstances. This kind of spiritual thumb-screw was often, and in various ways, tried upon Friend Hopper; but though it sometimes occasioned temporary inconvenience, it never induced him to change his course.
Her answers were amiable and self-contained. But what shall we say of Stephen Brice? Let us confess at once that it is he who is the hero of this story, and not Eliphalet Hopper. First and worst, it must be confessed that Stephen had at that time what has been called "the Boston manner." This was not Stephen's fault, but Boston's. Young Mr.
For one thing I am certain that the revivals of the Gilbert and Sullivan operettas to which De Wolf Hopper devoted his best talents were better, in many respects, than the original London productions; just as I am equally certain that the representations of Aida at the Metropolitan Opera House are way ahead of the original performance of that work given at Cairo before the Khedive of Egypt.
The monitor within frequently impelled Friend Hopper to address the assembled convicts at Sing Sing, on Sunday. The officers of the establishment were very willing to open the way for him; for according to the testimony of Mr.
The tears often came to her eyes when she saw Friend Hopper. "God bless that good man!" she would say. "He has been the salvation of me." A preacher of the Society of Friends felt impressed with the duty of calling a meeting for vicious people; and Isaac T. Hopper was appointed to collect an audience. In the course of this mission, he knocked at the door of a very infamous house.
The golden grain poured ceaselessly through the hopper, and leaning against it was the miller, a tall, stoop-shouldered man about forty years of age, with a floury smile lurking in his beard and a twinkle in his good-humored eyes overhung by heavy, mealy eyebrows. "Waal, Steve," yelled the miller, shambling forward as the blacksmith appeared in the doorway. "Come 'long in. Whar's yer grist?"
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