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Do ye hear?" "Yes, Pappy Lon," murmured Fledra, dropping her eyes. "I ain't said yet when ye was to go to Lem's hut; but, when I do, don't ye kick up no row, and ye'd best do as Lem tells ye, or he'll take the sass out of yer hide!" "I wish I could stay with you," ventured Fledra sorrowfully; but to this Lon did not reply.
"Nonsense!" exclaimed the little burglar. "A White Rocking Horse didn't kick you! A wooden horse can't kick!" "Well, this one did," declared the burglar. "Oh, my back!" The father and mother of Dick and Dorothy heard the noise out in the hall. So did Martha, the maid, and Mary, the cook. Dick's father sat up in bed. "I heard a noise," said his wife. "So did I," said Daddy.
Now and then Kotrina would find time to sob over his woes, but for the greater part of the time he had to be left alone, barricaded upon the bed. The floor was full of drafts, and if he caught cold he would die. At night he was tied down, lest he should kick the covers off him, while the family lay in their stupor of exhaustion.
A great bitterness comes up, a little madness gathers behind the eyes; I walk about the room and then I sit down, stunned by the sudden conviction that life is, after all, a very squalid thing something that I would like to kick like an old hat down a road.
He breathed, an uninspiring breath, into Mr. Polly's face. "What won't I do?" he said. "Once I start in on you." He paused, and the night about them seemed to be listening. "I'll make a mess of you," he said in his hoarse whisper. "I'll do you injuries. I'll 'urt you. I'll kick you ugly, see? I'll 'urt you in 'orrible ways 'orrible, ugly ways...." He scrutinised Mr. Polly's face.
'What's the office? replied that gentleman from his couch. 'Who the devil is this fellow? ''Gad, said Mr. Mivins, looking lazily out from under the bed-clothes, 'I ought to ask YOU that. Hasn't he any business here? 'No, replied Mr. Smangle. 'Then knock him downstairs, and tell him not to presume to get up till I come and kick him, rejoined Mr.
"Kick her again, gentlemen. Me, I'm plumb tired of that little song of mine, 'Good here'." Stone stayed. Curly did not come in. Cranston showed his openers and laid down his hand. Blackwell hesitated, then raised again. "Reckon I'm content to trail along," Cullison admitted, pushing in the necessary chips.
Order was instantly restored, and the young lady closed her remarks as follows: "My composition has three morals, my friends." Somebody groaned, but no notice was taken of the insult. "First, is keep your faces clean second, get up early third, when the ether sponge is put over your nose, breathe hard and don't kick, and your teeth will come out easy. I have no more to say."
Last of all came her brother riding on a horse and when he heard his sister's answer he turned his horse round and made it prance and kick until it kicked open the stone door of the cave; but this was of no avail for inside were inner doors which he could not open; so he also had to go home and leave his sister with the bonga.
She'd gossip and pray and preach with anybody. And now she'll weep and pine like that till she dies and she isn't sure even about heaven any more and instead of Jamie, she's got that oafish lad, that changeling, hung round her neck to kick her and ill-treat her in another year or two.
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