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"Who is that Altamont? know any thing about him and Strong?" Mr. Morgan asked of Mr. Lightfoot, on the next convenient occasion when they met at the Club. "Strong's his man of business, draws the governor's bills, and indosses 'em, and does his odd jobs and that; and I suppose Altamont's in it too," Mr. Lightfoot replied. "That kite-flying, you know, Mr.
"Now art thou truly Glumm the Gruff," cried Alric, laughing, as he leaped to the other side of a mass of fallen rock; "but if thy humour changes not, I will show thee that I am not named Lightfoot for nothing. Come, don't fume and fret there like a bear with a headache, but let me speak, and I warrant me thou wilt be reasonably glad." "Go on, then, thou incorrigible."
There was no fireplace in my room, and the other fires of the house were all out, but the old couple were kindness and goodness itself, and in the end I rolled myself up in my faithful plaid and slept at their house. The next day Sunday, the 20th Mr. Cowan, the young Consul, and a Mr. Lightfoot, came round and bore me off to the Consulate.
Elmwood would not have hired that flighty damsel on any account, and Emlyn was sure it would be but mopish work to live under a starched old Puritan. Mrs. Lightfoot was therefore applied to, to find a service for Emlyn Gaythorn, and she presently discovered one Mistress Sloggett, a haberdasher's wife of wealth and consideration, who wanted a young maidservant.
Lightfoot used the obnoxious expression, his comrade's anger was only indicated by a silent frown; but on the second offence, Morgan, who was smoking his cigar elegantly, and holding it on the tip of his penknife, withdrew the cigar from his lips, and took his young friend to task.
"Well, you ought to be something better, and you must be." "I'll be anything you please, Betty; I'll be President, if you wish it." "No, thank you, I don't care in the least for Presidents." "Then I'll be a beggar, you like beggars." "You'll be just yourself, if you want to please me, Dan," she said earnestly. "You will be your best self neither the flattering Lightfoot, nor the rude Montjoy.
Not a spark of hope remained to Lightfoot. He simply stood still and trembled, partly with fear and partly with weariness. Then a surprising thing happened. The man spoke softly. He advanced, not threateningly but slowly, and in a friendly way. He walked around back of Lightfoot and then straight towards him. Lightfoot walked on a few steps, and the man followed, still talking softly.
"I've just gotten a new recipe for coffee, child," the old lady began in mild excitement. "Last year I made it entirely of sweet potatoes, but Mrs. Blake tells me that she mixes rye and a few roasted chestnuts. Mr. Lightfoot took supper with her a week ago, and he actually congratulated her upon still keeping her real old Mocha. Be sure to try it."
Lightfoot may be justly awarded the praise of having here made the reading public acquainted with the various manuscripts and versions of these Ignatian letters, as well as with the arguments which may be urged in their favour; and he has thus rendered good service to the cause of historical criticism.
Have you been up in the Old Pasture and asked Old Man Coyote if he has seen anything of Lightfoot?" Sammy nodded. "I've been up there twice," said he. "Old Man Coyote has been lying very low during the days, but nights he has done a lot of traveling.
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