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And so before the reveille bugles were singing through the wintry morning along the slopes of the Rockies, the telegraph had roused the officers at all the posts along the railway for five hundred miles. Russell, Sanders, and Sidney were up and astir with preparation.
There were only two in Sanders's shanty, Sanders and his crippled daughter, a girl of twelve, with a broken back. She barely reached the sill when she stood at the low window to watch her father waving his flag. Bent, hollow-eyed, shrunken; her red hair cropped short in her neck; her poor little white fingers clutching the window-frame.
"An' I cudna think to disappoint the lassie." "Your sentiments do you credit, Sanders," said the minister; "but I hope you do not enter upon the blessed state of matrimony without full consideration of its responsibilities. It is a serious business, marriage." "It's a' that," said Sanders, "but I'm willin' to stan' the risk."
"In other words," said Agent Sanders as confidently as if he could see right inside of her head and knew everything in it, "this is not the first time Miss Lehar has gone on a mysterious errand at night eh?" Sahwah started, and then was furious at herself because she knew the agent had noticed it.
Sanders and a tender love of the little Sanderses. There is young Smooch, he who smashed the Fly-Gallery in "The Mahlstick" newspaper, and was not for a moment taken in by the new Titian. There is Crosshatch, who has the marvellous etching by Rembrandt, of which there are only three copies in the world, and which he will not sell, no, Sir, not to the British Museum. There is Mr.
Sanders, Mrs. Bardell, leaving the others to Mr. 'Isaac, said Jackson, as Mrs. Bardell prepared to get in, looking up at the man with the ash stick, who was seated on the box, smoking a cigar. 'Well? 'This is Mrs. Bardell. 'Oh, I know'd that long ago, said the man. Mrs. Bardell got in, Mr. Jackson got in after her, and away they drove. Mrs. Bardell could not help ruminating on what Mr.
The potatoes were burning, and T'nowhead had an invitation on his tongue. "Yes, I'll hae to be movin'," said Sanders, hopelessly, for the fifth time. "Guid-nicht to ye, then, Sanders," said Lisbeth. "Gie the door a fling-to ahent ye." Sanders, with a mighty effort, pulled himself together. He looked boldly at Bell, and then took off his hat carefully.
His nose, though not markedly Jewish, betrayed in him the blood of that vital race which has triumphantly survived so many centuries of bondage and oppression. "He was a find, Czernowitz he calls himself Sanders," Rolfe explained, as they entered the hall once more.
The more, I said, I had pondered over the map and reflected upon the character, probable numbers and supposed positions of the enemy, the more convinced I had become that the first and foremost step towards a victorious landing was to upset the equilibrium of Liman von Sanders, the enemy Commander who has succeeded Djavad in the Command of the Fifth Army.
"You know how vaqueros are always comin' in and chargin' goods against the boss. I give out the word they was to quit it. Sanders he gets a pair of eighteen-dollar boots, then jumps the town before I find out about it." Crawford started to speak, but Doble finished his story. "I took out after him, but my bronc went lame from a stone in its hoof. You'll never see that eighteen plunks, Em.
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