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Prescott, I congratulate you on having such a good champion. Good afternoon, Laura. Good afternoon, Mr. Prescott; I am very glad indeed to have had the pleasure of meeting you." "I am most happy to have met you, sir; if it were not for my own great good fortune, and my natural selfishness, I would feel most regretful over being the means of distracting Miss Bentley's attention."
Brayton, Spurlock and their classmates were honorably through with West Point, their new careers about to open before them. Cadet Dick Prescott came forth from the exercises, a look of radiant happiness on his face. He had been ordered before a board of surgeons that morning. Just as a formality he was to go before a medical board again in August.
So saying, Hans passed out of the wigwam on his way to return to Oonomoo. His prolonged conversation with Miss Prescott had attracted the attention of the Indians who were lingering outside, and several asked him its purport. To these he invariably replied, "she didn't know wheder it was going for to rain or not, but she fought it would do one or toder."
"That is, your time of triumph over me will never come. What else may happen it is yet a little too early to say." Cadet Prescott felt all the cold rage that was possible to him surging up inside. "Haynes," he went on, "it may seem odd of me to ask a favor from you." "Very odd, indeed!" sneered the turnback.
Of course, if a cadet, plebe or otherwise, is actually found outside the guard line after taps, then we cannot excuse his conduct. This is where the ounce of prevention comes in. Mr. Prescott, I wish you would be up and around the camp between taps and midnight to-night.
"Pitcher," Dick answered, quietly. A thrill of delight went through Fred. This was more luck than he had hoped for. What great delight there was going to be in beating out Dick Prescott! "Reade?" "Second base." "Ripley?" "P-p-pitcher!" Fred fairly stuttered in his eagerness to get the word out emphatically.
"You fellows are well enough up to make the team." "But we're nervous about our studies," rejoined Prescott. "Nervous about your studies!" cried Brayton sharply. "Yet not a whit anxious for the honor of the Army that you hope to serve in all your lives. Now, you fellows know, as well as any of us, that we don't much mind being walked over by a crack college eleven.
"Hello, little one!" cried Prescott, cheerily, picking up a wee little girl of four and holding her at arm's length. "Hello, you're crying. What's the matter? Lost mother?" "No; lost papa," wailed the little one. "Perhaps we can find him for you," offered Tom, readily. "Mollie! Mollie, where are you?" came a woman's voice out of the darkness. "Is this your little girl, madam?" called Prescott.
We would see William Prescott, a boy of twelve, diligently at work in the Boston Athenaeum, or Jonathan Edwards at thirteen entering Yale College, and while yet of a tender age shining in the horizon of American literature; while the same age finds H. W. Longfellow writing for the Portland Gazette.
Prescott looked curiously at the Secretary of State it was the first time that he had ever seen him a middle-aged man with broad features of an Oriental cast. He it was to whom many applied the words "the brains of the Confederacy." Now he was not disturbed by the President's evident annoyance. "Why blame me, Mr. President?" he said. "How long has it been since we won a great victory?
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