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"I wouldn't want him to find me, now!" thought Dick, a cold chill running over him at the thought of Tag's desperate savagery. But at that moment Prescott accidentally made a sound, which, slight though it was, caught young Mosher's ear. In a twinkling Tag wheeled about, listening, peering. Then, straight toward Prescott he came. "Oh, it's you, is it?" demanded young Mosher harshly.
A red-and-white pressed-glass punch bowl, purchased out of Nicholas's aged fourteen pig-bank savings. An enlarged crayon of her twins from a baby picture. A patent rocker which she kept in the kitchen. Another chair capable of metamorphosis into a ladder. And Mosher's cup. From this Mosher drank with gusto.
Then she resorted, excusably under the circumstances, to the somewhat feminine trick, of pinching Tag Mosher's arm sharply. That started the real fight. Dick tripped the bigger fellow, and the pair went down together as Belle leaped back. Click! click! sounded both descending hammers of the sawed-off shotgun.
Her own daughter-in-law, a girl that was raised in luxury, can cook better as Gussie. I tell you, Mosher, I take off my hat to those Berkowitz girls. And if you should ask me, Ada is a finer one even than Leo's Irma." The sly look of wiseacre wizened up Mosher's face. "Ada!" she says.
"Are you going to cool down and listen!" demanded Dick Prescott firmly. Out shot the Mosher youth's left fist. Dick dodged. It was a feint; Dick nearly stopped Mosher's right. Blows rained in thickly now. Not every one could Prescott dodge, though he was more agile and better trained than this more powerful youth.
"In the basement." Skinny Mosher's, too, was still in existence. All the rest of the morning and afternoon, the two wagons ran merrily toward the Southern Avenue sand hill, or creaked slowly and laboriously back to the "Tigers' Home Grounds," with such good effect that but a scant ten feet of path remained to be filled in when John's paper route called him.
The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse to give her a sense of pity for human woes wait a minute, though: that's a pretty broad book for young ladies. I guess we'll put it aside and see what else there is. Some of Mr. Mosher's catalogues: fine! they'll show her the true spirit of what one book-lover calls biblio-bliss. Walking-Stick Papers yes, there are still good essayists running around.
"Hold on there a moment," called Dick. The other boy baited, turning about. "Do you remember what I told you the other day?" demanded Prescott. "You've told me a lot of things I never took from any other kid," growled Tag. "Do you remember what I told you about your father, his love for you, and his desire to meet and claim you?" "Old Bill Mosher's love?" laughed Tag harshly.
"Then you admit damaging the bridge?" asked Valden. "I admit nothing of the kind," Tag retorted. "Who ripped the boards up?" "I don't know." "We'll prove it against you," declared Valden positively. "Oh, I s'pose you will," grumbled Tag. "It's easy to prove anything against old Bill Mosher's son. My dad's where he can't help me."
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