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"I say, governor, don't you want a broker to bid for ye?" "Wink at me next time, sir; I'll do the office for you." "No greenhorns left now." "That lady won't give a ten-pund note for her grandfather's armchair." "Oh, yes, she will, if it's stuffed with banknotes." "Put the next lot up with the owner's name and the reserve price. Open business." "And sing a psalm at starting."
I have forgot what little I learned of it, and that was next to nothing. But open the book, please, at the title-page." "I see nothing. It has neither book-plate nor owner's signature." "The title-page, I said. You are staring at the flyleaf." "Ah, to be sure " Lady Caroline turned a leaf. "Is this what you mean?" She held up a loose sheet of paper covered with writing. "Read it."
Next came the large grey rat, captured originally in the steel trap, and whose first act might have been anticipated. It did not resent its owner's handling; but the moment it was set down it darted under the loose boards, and remained there until tempted forth by the smell of the bread and milk, and a tempting piece of candle-end, the former of which it helped the hedgehog to eat.
Another splash. "Five." "That'll do, 'Orace," came the voice from the wheel. Then an entranced silence. The scene had the air of being ideal. And yet it was not. Something lacked. That something was the owner. The owner lay indisposed in the sacred owner's cabin. And this was a pity because a dance had been planned for that night.
Why did his father in his spells of nervous excitement always rave so about the patented process? Why did he hate Pete Martin so bitterly? What was this secret thing that was driving Adam Ward insane? Thinking to find an answer to these perplexing questions, if there was any answer other than the Mill owner's mental condition, John forced himself to the pretense of sharing his father's fears.
Now he caught a glimpse of a sloping shoulder and half a back in an overcoat, with a cane sticking out of the owner's pocket and part of a fashionable hat-brim. The figure was smoking a cigar and bending down as if to talk. To whom? To whom? For it was Ludvig Veyergang's, that narrow, straight back, that seemed in its pride as if it could not bend above the hips.
A jury would probably award him some very considerable sum, if a jury could get hold of his father while still living. No doubt the furniture and other property would remain, and might be held to be liable for the present owner's laches.
He listened, therefore, complacently enough to Bergenheim's prolix explanations, interested himself in the planting of trees, thought the fields very green, the forests admirable, the granite rocks more beautiful than those of the Alps, went into ecstasies over the smallest vista, advised the establishment of a new mill on the river, which, being navigable for rafts, might convey lumber to all the cities on the Moselle, and thus greatly increase the value of the owner's woods.
But the Ifugaos, thanks to Gallman, as already said, have abandoned head-hunting, and the skulls in hand, if kept at all, are now hidden inside their owner's houses, their places being taken by carabao heads and horns.
A fleet of fishing-boats, their coloured sails decorated with stripes and geometric patterns, or even now and then with a representation of the owner's patron-saint, was putting out to sea in single file, between the Capo del Turco and the Capo del Papa.
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