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Did not see Separation Camp; it is wrongly placed on the map. Friday, 10th September, Small Creek. Started at 9 on a bearing of 110 degrees for Cooroona; at seventeen miles made Cooroona. Camped fifteen miles beyond. Saturday, 11th September. Arrived at Mr. Thompson's station, Mount Arden.
At the knowledge something flared up in me that had been pretty well burnt out: and that was Hope. That any one was in the place showed Macartney had either put a guard on me which meant Thompson's abandoned stope was not sealed so mighty securely as I thought or else it was he himself facing me in the dark, and I might get even with him yet. I let out a string of curses at him on the chance.
R. Pike saith he does no wise marvel at her complaints; for when she formerly dwelt at the Marblehead fishing-haven, she was one of the unruly women who did break into Thompson's garrison-house, and barbarously put to death two Saugus Indians, who had given themselves up for safe keeping, and who had never harmed any, which thing was a great grief and scandal to all well-disposed people.
But Mary did not unbend. She was as stiff as the chair she sat in. Without turning her head she turned her eyes and looked at him sideways. "Mrs. Creel." There was a glint in her black eyes that meant war, and Thompson's countenance fell. "Ah-ur-Mrs. Creel." "I did n't know as you 'd know me!" She spoke quietly, her eyes still on him sidewise. "Not know you! Why, of course, I know you.
Neither of us could remember which it was, although I had a dim visualization of the correspondence, but it formed an immediate bond. Moreover another point I had quite forgotten when her friend, Madame Leverrière, had visited the United States some time previously to put Mlle. Thompson's dolls on the market, I had been asked to write something in favor of the work for the New York Times.
We'd no guns but Marcia's popgun and her rifle; two of us, even on the shelf in Thompson's stope, would do little good with those against all Macartney's men crowding into the stope and giving us a volley the second our fire from the shelf drew theirs. We might pick off half a dozen of them before our cartridges gave out. But there was no sense in that business.
They are pretty, but, merciful heavens! how they throw the meat and potatoes down their throats. "This is the first squar' meal we've had since we left Rocky Thompson's," said the eldest. Then addressing herself to me, she said: "Air you the literary man?" I politely replied that I was one of "them fellers." "Wall, don't make fun of our clothes in the papers.
"That's Green! that's Jorrocks!" and a murmuring titter, and exclamations of "There's Simpkins! how pretty he is!" "But there's Wiggins, who's much nicer." "My eye, what a cauliflower hat Mrs. Thompson's got!" "What a buck young Snooks is!" "What gummy legs that girl in green has!"
Miss Thompson's door was open, and they saw her in a bedraggled dressing-gown, cooking something in a chafing-dish. "Good morning," she called. "Is Mr Davidson better this morning?" They passed her in silence, with their noses in the air, as if she did not exist. They flushed, however, when she burst into a shout of derisive laughter. Mrs Davidson turned on her suddenly.
Thompson's, he who had painted the portrait of my father used in the editions of "Twice-Told Tales." The room was very large, but not very high, and it had a great deal of shadow in it. I did not think he painted as well as Raphael; but I delighted in the smell of his pigments, which were intensely fragrant.
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