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I seen a pattern in the fashion sheet of the Fireside Love Letter that was re'l sweet." "What's eatin' on you, Maw?" demanded her son gruffly. "Whatcher wanter talk that way for right in front of Janice? I reckon we won't none of us put on crêpe for Uncle Brocky yet awhile," he added, stoutly. On Monday arrived another letter from Mr. Broxton Day.
The words came in short sharp tones, and the speaker's dark eyes seemed to flash. The effect was marvellous. Mike began to turn the handle at a rapid rate, winding up the rope till the pair of hooks used for grasping the great hogsheads rattled with their chains against the pulley wheels of the crane, and a shout came from the warehouse, "Whatcher doing of? Hold hard!"
Daddles, "there's no one left in there but the policemen, and you can't wake them up from here." "P'licemen?" queried the fat man. "Whatcher talkin' about?" asked the man with the pitchfork. "I'm talking about the two policemen who are getting their eight hours in the library," Mr. Daddles replied, "Poor things! I hope we didn't disturb them."
"Anybody here 'sides you youngsters?" he demanded, at the same time peering inside the cabin. "A few spiders," said Tom. "Whatcher doin' here, anyway?" "We're waiting for the storm to hold up," said Roy; "we beat it from that road when " "We sought refuge," Pee-wee prompted him. "Any port in a storm, you know," Roy smiled. "Are we pinched?"
What is it this trip, a wire-tappin' scheme, or just plain green goods?" "You flatter me," says J. Bayard. "No, my business of the moment is not to appropriate any of the princely profits of your er honest toil," and he stops for another of them acetic-acid smiles. "Yes," says I, "it is a batty way of gettin' money workin' for it, eh? But go on. Whatcher mean you lost your dog?"
'Yeh blamed rascal, whatcher been doin' ter our grub now? "'What's th' trouble, Joe? I asks quietly. "'Trouble, yeh skunk, he howls; 'our throats is hot as hell, all th' skin's comin' off 'em; Bill Tomson's got his lips that blistered he can't hold his pipe between 'em. What yeh been doin? "'Hold hard a jiffy, I said, an' looks at what was left o' th' spice I'd used. I nearly had a fit.
"Yes; but you don't know how chilly it makes you feel. Mind the clothes." Bob did mind, and the next minute Dexter and the barge of dry clothes were upon the grass together. "Oh, isn't it cold?" said Dexter, with his teeth chattering. "Cold? no. Not a bit," said Bob. "Here, whatcher going to do!" "Do? Dress myself. Here, give me my shirt. Oh, don't I wish I had a towel!"
Now then, are you coming, or are you not!" "I'm coming," said Dexter. "But stop a moment. I'll be back directly." "Whatcher going to do!" "Wait a moment and I'll show you." Dexter had had a happy thought, and turning and running in his trousers to the tool-shed, he dragged out a small deal box in which seeds had come down from London that spring.
"Well, you can't have been both," said the boy. "Whatcher mean by that?" "There have been times, Punch, when I have felt ashamed of what I have done." "Why, what have you done? I don't believe it was ever anything bad. You say what it was. I'll never tell." "Enlisted for a soldier." "What?" cried the boy. "Why, that ain't nothing to be ashamed of. What stuff!
"Sentimental soloist, soprano," she answered promptly, remembering Irwin's advice to talk up. "Whatcher name?" Mr. Symes asked, scarcely deigning to glance at her. She hesitated. So rapidly had she been rushed into the adventure that she had not considered the question of a name at all. "Any name? Stage name?" he bellowed impatiently. "Nan Bellayne," she invented on the spur of the moment.
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