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Cowan gave me the one look, swore a mighty oath, and leaping to the port shouted to Ray in a thundering voice what we were doing. "Dig!" roared Cowan. "Dig, for the love of God, for he can't hear me." The three of us set to work with all our might, Poulsson making great holes in the ground at every stroke, Polly Ann scraping at the dirt with the gourd.
We left our digging and burden-bearing; we turned from our scraping and twisting of things and words; we paused from our hurrying hither and thither and walking up and down, and asked in half-whisper: this Death is this Life? And is its beauty real or false? And of this heart-questioning I am writing.
"Can we be of any assistance?" "I guess I can make it," I said, scraping the mud off my trousers and boots. "Gee-up there, Liney!" My cows settled slowly into the yoke, and standing, as they did now, on firm ground, they deliberately snaked the wagon, hub-deep as it was, out of the mire, and stopped at the word on the western side of the mud-hole. "Good work, Mr. Vandemark!" he said.
"Cinq- deux!" an oath, a laugh, the click of glasses and bottles came out more clearly; but the rest of the time these sounds were more like a droning accompaniment to the scraping of Heriot's pen upon the paper when he finally began to write his letter. Two minutes went by and then two more.
It may have been that he was too bright a genius to live long, or it may have been that he took some pernicious substance into his bill, and thence into his maw which is not improbable, seeing that he new-pointed the greater part of the garden-wall by digging out the mortar, broke countless squares of glass by scraping away the putty all round the frames, and tore up and swallowed, in splinters, the greater part of a wooden staircase of six steps and a landing but after some three years he too was taken ill, and died before the kitchen fire.
Tom Chist gazed around as though expecting to see some sign of the tragedy, but the space was as smooth and as undisturbed as a floor, excepting where, midway across it, Parson Jones who was now stooping over something on the ground, had trampled it all around about. When Tom Chist saw him, he was still bending over, scraping the sand away from something he had found. It was the first peg!
They outraged the naked corpse, dismembered it, and incredible to be said, finished their infernal crime by scraping the flesh from the bones with oyster-shells, and casting the remnants into the fire. Though in his privacy St. Cyril and his friends might laugh at the end of his antagonist, his memory must bear the weight of the righteous indignation of posterity.
The dust is kicked up under his nimble feet, but he reaches unharmed the cleft in which some rude steps have been hacked, and goes, half sliding, half scraping, down into the cooler depths below. "Mother of Moses!" he groans, "but we'll never get the lieut'nant out alive. Shure they're all around him now." Then bounding down the gorge he finds McGuffey kneeling at the point.
He was aroused at length by a scraping sound overhead and a sharp reprimand, "Rolf, you'll tear my new parasol, if you don't lead the horse better." By two o'clock they were at Callan's. Another hour and they had crossed the lake, and Annette, shrill with joy, was displaying her treasures to the wonder and envy of her kin.
Four minutes are then to be devoted to scraping the powder into a heap, and the second third of the hundred grains of sugar of milk to be added. Every grain of this powder contains the hundredth of a grain of the medicinal substance mingled with the sugar of milk.
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