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The last man who talked to Clark; the ranch to-day. That sort of thing." Bassett went on doggedly sorting his mail. "You take it from me," he said, "the story's dead, and so is Clark. The Donaldson woman was crazy. That's all."
Story, should not have seen that in such matters one live fact is better than fifty dead ones, and that even in history it is not so much the facts as what the historian has contrived to see in them that gives life to his work. But learning makes a small part of Mr. Story's book; only, as the concluding chapter happens to bristle with quotations and references, thickly as the nave of St.
'It's not impossible that he may thrive by this kind of thing. 'Not at all, assented Jasper. Shortly after this he looked at his watch. 'I must be off, my friends. I have something to write before I can go to my truckle-bed, and it'll take me three hours at least. Good-bye, old man. Let me know when your story's finished, and we'll talk about it.
Marshall's "original bias," to quote Story's own words, "as well as the choice of his mind, was to general principles and comprehensive views, rather than to technical or recondite learning." Story's own bias, which was supported by his prodigious industry, was just the reverse. The two men thus supplemented each other admirably.
What do you think that story's worth to Tammany, hey? It's worth twenty thousand votes!" The young man danced in front of the car triumphantly, mockingly, in a frenzy of malice. "Read the extras, that's all," he taunted. "Read 'em in an hour from now!" Winthrop glared at the shrieking figure with fierce, impotent rage; then, with a look of disgust, he flung the robe off his knees and rose. Mr.
And the story's told. The last chapter's ended. The book is shut. But they whose one absorbing ambition it is to turn others to righteousness may not shine much here in earth's skies. And they may a bit, and it recks precious little either way. But they shall shine as the stars, as bright and as long. It does not mean Atlantic coast stars.
"Well, dear knows I don't want to desecrate God's Day," Uncle William answered, accepting the rebuke, "but that is a lamentable letter to get. I must say!" Mrs. MacDermott held her hand out for the letter. "Give it to me," she said, and she took it from Uncle William. "This is his way of saying your story's no good, John," she said, when she had read through the note.
I see your story's true, an' a little rest won't hurt you." Samuel gazed longingly at the food, desiring more handfuls. "Come over here," said the man. "What happened to you?" "I was locked in an empty freight car." "Humph! That's a new one! How long?" "What day is this?" "Friday." "I was locked in Wednesday morning. It seemed longer." "It's long enough," commented the barkeeper.
Day by day, hour by hour, he lived in dread of this story's being brought to light. This little unexpected communication increased that dread fourfold. "Have I shocked you?" asked Captain Kirton. "I may yet get the better of it." "I believe I was thinking of Maude," answered Hartledon, slowly recovering from his stupor. "I never heard I had no idea that Maude's heart was not perfectly sound."
The guards seized upon the unfortunate Ali, to put in execution the will of the pacha; and as he was dragged away, Hussan cried out, "I told you so; but you would not believe me." "Well," replied Ali, "I've one comfort, your story's not told yet. His highness has yet to decide which is the best."
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