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"You're a good beast," said Gallegher, plaintively. "You've got more nerve than me. Don't you go back on me now. Mr. Dwyer says we've got to beat the town." Gallegher had no idea what time it was as he rode through the night, but he knew he would be able to find out from a big clock over a manufactory at a point nearly three-quarters of the distance from Keppler's to the goal.
After some unsuccessful ventures in illustrated journalism, he started a pictorial weekly in New York in 1875. It was originally printed in German, but in less than a year it was issued also in English. It was not until 1879 that it sprang into general notice through Keppler's success in reproducing lithographed designs in color.
The stranger entered the inn at a side door, and Gallegher, reaching it a few minutes later, let him go for the time being, and set about finding his occasional playmate, young Keppler. Keppler's offspring was found in the wood-shed. "'Tain't hard to guess what brings you out here," said the tavern- keeper's son, with a grin; "it's the fight." "What fight?" asked Gallegher, unguardedly.
"Keppler's black and white heifer," answered Mr. Peabody grimly. "Bob here is finding fault with me because I didn't let it eat its head off." "No such thing!" Bob Henderson was stung into speech. "Because the poor creature didn't get out fast enough to suit you and you bewildered her with your shouting till she didn't know which way to turn you jabbed her with the pitchfork. I saw the blood!
Perhaps that station is better than Glenside, after all." The walk across the fields tranquillized her, and she was able to enlist the aid of the Keppler's oldest boy without entering into too detailed an account of Mr. Peabody's shortcomings. Indeed, the Kepplers, father and sons, having been the nearest neighbors to Bramble Farm for eleven years, had a very fair idea of what went on there.
Leaving for the moment the consideration of geysers and hot springs and other wonders of this character, the sightseer gets a view of a very different nature. At Keppler's Cascades the stage coach generally stops to enable passengers to walk to the edge of the cliff and watch the cascades and foaming river in the black cañon below.
Dwyer's astonishment, drew from him what was apparently a torrent of tears. "Let me go to me father. I want me father," the boy shrieked, hysterically. "They've 'rested father. Oh, daddy, daddy. They're a- goin' to take you to prison." "Who is your father, sonny?" asked one of the guardians of the gate. "Keppler's me father," sobbed Gallegher.
Sometimes it was that the police had learnt of the fight, and had raided Keppler's in his absence, and again it was that the fight had been postponed, or, worst of all, that it would be put off until so late that Mr. Dwyer could not get back in time for the last edition of the paper.
Sometimes it was that the police had learnt of the fight, and had raided Keppler's in his absence, and again it was that the fight had been postponed, or, worst of all, that it would be put off until so late that Mr. Dwyer could not get back in time for the last edition of the paper.
The stranger entered the inn at a side door, and Gallegher, reaching it a few minutes later, let him go for the time being, and set about finding his occasional playmate, young Keppler. Keppler's offspring was found in the woodshed. "Tain't hard to guess what brings you out here," said the tavern-keeper's son, with a grin; "it's the fight." "What fight?" asked Gallegher, unguardedly. "What fight?
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