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"Translated, a guy who had bumped into a cyclone and was sitting tight waiting for it to blow over. I I took a fancy to her, as you might put it. She wanted the money. I got it for her." "A pretty fairy story, my boy," the mayor commented. "Absolutely true," smiled Magee. "What do you think of that for an explanation, Lou," inquired Cargan, "she asked him for the money and he gave it to her?" Mr.
He placed the key in the lock, turned it, and the door swung open. The coldest blast of air Mr. Magee had even encountered swept out from the dark interior. He shuddered, and wrapped his coat closer. He seemed to see the white trail from Dawson City, the sled dogs straggling on with the dwindling provisions, the fat Eskimo guide begging for gum-drops by his side.
The windows were all of the low French variety, and opened out upon a broad snow-covered balcony which was in reality the roof of the first floor veranda. On this balcony Magee stood a moment, watching the trees on Baldpate wave their black arms in the wind, and the lights of Upper Asquewan Falls wink knowingly up at him.
Hayden had few scruples, but as events to-night have well proved, Mr. Magee, he was a coward at heart. I do not know just why he lies on your bed up-stairs at this moment, a suicide that is a matter between Kendrick and him, and one which Kendrick himself has not yet fathomed. As I say, Hayden was afraid of being caught.
The first chapter, perhaps, is the story of the old political machines in Pittsburg, and of that interesting, and in certain elemental, human senses strong personality, Chris Magee, the boss who has a monument. Then, there is another personality, of a different sort, in Blakeley, the district attorney. My accounts are meager and bald, and yet I catch glimpses of a striking personality.
Magee, between whom and himself he recognized the tie of authorship, a copy of a New York paper that he claimed to get each morning from the station agent, and which helped him greatly, he said, in his eternal search for the woman. As the meal passed, Mr. Magee glanced it through. Twice he looked up from it to study keenly his queer companions at Baldpate Inn.
"Things can't be true when they happen so quickly." "A woman's logic," said Mr. Magee. "It has happened. My beautiful girl. Look at me." And then she looked. Trembling, flushed, half frightened, half exultant, she lifted her eyes to his. "My little girl!" he cried down at her. A moment longer she held off, and then limply she surrendered. And Billy Magee held her close in his arms.
Bland keeping vigil by a telephone switchboard in the office below, watching for the flash of light that should tell them some one in the outside world wanted to speak to Baldpate Inn; a mysterious figure who flitted about in the dark; a beautiful girl who was going to ask Mr. Magee to do her a service, blindly trusting her. The professor droned on monotonously. Once Mr.
Several times he looked up to find Max's cat-like eyes upon him, sinister and cruel behind the incongruous gold-rimmed glasses; several times he saw Hayden's eyes, hostile and angry, seek his face. They were desperate; they would stop at nothing; Mr. Magee felt that as the drama drew to its close they saw him and him alone between them and their golden desires.
Shorty Magee uttered the four words, "Cooked for Sir George!" and with an ugly sneer turned again to his letter-writing. Hal Bennington had sprung forward, tossing his arms about the Indian's shoulders and exclaiming, "Your father! Is French Pete your father? Oh, I'm so glad! Father will be delighted when I tell him.
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