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There would be nothing but scorn from Uncle Bill when he returned, and not that moment of praise for which he yearned. To gain that great end he must kill Pete Reeve, but not by the aid of the law. "I dunno," he said to the sheriff who waited impatiently. "I figure that what I know wouldn't be no good to you." The sheriff snorted. "You been letting me waste all this time on you?" he asked Bull.
The voice of Pete Reeve came from a great distance. "And they's only one thing lacking to make you perfect and that's to have to fight once for your life and drop the other gent. After that happens well, Pete Reeve will have a successor!" How much that meant Bull Hunter very well knew. The terrible fame of Pete Reeve ran the length and the breadth of the mountains.
That chilly little silence made Bull's heart beat. To be called a man, to be praised by stern Bill Campbell surely these were things to make anyone risk death! "Is that the Pete Reeve," said Harry's voice, "that shot up Mike Rivers over the hill to the Tompkins place, about four year back?" "That's him. Why?" Again the silence.
"Answer, fellow," thundered the magistrate. Before replying, Jem would fain have consulted the reeve, but the latter had turned away in displeasure. Not knowing whether a lie would serve his turn, and fearing he might be contradicted by some of the bystanders, he said he had not been at home for two days, but had returned the night before at a late hour from Whalley, and had slept at Rough Lee.
Disraeli, on the other hand, with a wider grasp of the situation, understood that, in this, at any rate, inactivity was not masterly, and that by boldness the enemy would be hoist with their own petard. From Lady Smith Lowestoft, December 5th. Dear Mr. Reeve, It gave me pleasure to see your handwriting again, and some surprise.
Him that used to blow 'bout th' wonderful jobs he'd got th' pick of when he was 'time-ex. All he got was 'reeve' of some little shi-poke burg down south. Hooshomin its real name, but they mostly call it Hootch thereabouts. A rotten little dump of 'bout fifty inhabitants. They're drunk half th' time an' wear each other's clothes. Ugh! filthy beggars! . . . He's back on th' Force again.
Like the Reeve in the Canterbury Tales, who "ever rode the hinderest of the rout," being such a rogue and such a rogue-catcher that he could not bear anybody behind his back, Bruce, when about the business that his soul loved, eschewed the presence of any third person. "Noo, Mr Doo?" he said. "My business'll keep," replied Dow. "But ye see we're busy the nicht, Mr Doo."
Now when they had sworn, Beltane turned him to the Reeve: "Good sir," quoth he, "I pray you loose now the captives from their chains. Let your prisoners be secured, and for the rest, let us now eat and drink lest we famish."
There came to it the lords of the manors with their stewards, the abbots and priors of the county with their officers, the legal men of the hundreds who were qualified by holding property or by social freedom, and from every township the parish priest, with the reeve and four men, the smiths, farmers, millers, carpenters, who had been chosen in the little community to represent their neighbours; and along with them stood the pledges, the witnesses, the finders of dead bodies, men suspected of crime.
My dear Reeve, I don't know whether the article 'Germany since the Peace of Frankfort' has done in Great Britain so much noise as the 'Affghanistan, which has been, over here, an event in the literary-politic world. It is a sombre picture, quite in the style of Rembrandt, with a chiaroscuro much akin to darkness. It can be objected that the lights are sacrificed to the shades.
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