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He was now sweeping onward across the open field with high graceful bounds, tossing his antlered head aloft, as if already safe, and little hurt, if anything, by Jem Lyn's boasted shot of the last evening.
He gasped a few times, then, gathering strength again, went on with that horrible spasmodic recitation. "They were after us a long time. Lyn's at Walsh. There's a a good stake. Get it for her. It's cached under the Stone yuh know Writin'-Stone. Three sacks. That's what they wanted. You'll you'll on the rock above marked gold raw gold that's it gold raw gold Mac I want I want " That was all.
Since dey done brought Miss Lyn's paw in an' planted him, she say dey ain't no use foh huh to stay in dis yeah redcoat country no longer; so we all packed up an' sta'ted back foh de lan' ob de free." MacRae, I am sure, was no more than half through his meal. But he swallowed the coffee in his cup, and tossed his eating-implements into the cook's wash-pan. "I'll go with you, Mammy," he told her.
He was quite well, quite a sentimentalist! But see here we are!" "The house looks different already!" Conning said, leaning from the cab window. "Yes, Lyn's had a lot to do, but she's managed to make a home of the place in the short time."
The insolent tone of him was like having one's face slapped, and it didn't pass over Lyn's head by any means. I thought to myself that if he had set out to entrench himself in her good graces, he was taking the poorest of all methods to accomplish that desirable end. "Just a moment, major," she said. "Are you going to be here any length of time, Sarge?" "A day or so," I responded shortly.
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