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At Woodward's Garden, in the city of San Francisco, is a rather badly chiselled statue of Pandora pulling open her casket of ills. Pandora's raiment, I grieve to state, has slipped down about her waist in a manner exceedingly reprehensible.
His cousin had an arch greeting in readiness. "Well, you've been doing a pretty mash, you have!" she cried, and jogged him with her elbow. "No wonder you'd no eyes for poor us. What price Miss Woodward's gloves this morning!" at which Bob laughed, looked sly, and tapped his breast pocket. It was time to be moving homewards. Tilly and her beau led the way.
Woodward's shop was at the corner of Broadway and Chambers Street, which was then the northern limit of the city. Just beyond this was a big garden, worked by a prosperous and enterprising Irishman who supplied vegetables to ship-captains. This garden later was transformed into City Hall Park, and here the city buildings were erected, the finest in America for their purpose.
I was beginning to believe I'd lost my nerve. But see here!" He held out his right hand toward Harlan it was steady, rigid, not a nerve in it quivered. "You're fast with your guns, but you can't run any whizzer in on me you can't intimidate me. You killed Latimer the other day; and you've got the boys with you. But you can't run things here. Have all the boys gone?" "Woodward's here."
Finally when she could stand it no more, she sprang up between two of Mrs. Woodward's longest sentences and remarked that it was very late and a long way home, and that she would come again some time. Then at last when she was out in the open air, she drew a deep breath and fled away to the woods, wondering what could be God's reason for such things.
Suddenly he cast his business interests to the winds. Became a labor agitator. Francisco Stanley, who had sought him, questing for an interview since morning, cornered him at last in Bob Woodward's What Cheer House at Sacramento and Leidesdorff streets. It was one of those odd institutions found only in this vividly bizarre metropolis of the West.
This author has perhaps properly exposed Woodward's Theory of Petrification in saying , "Son erreur
Then Woodward's goose is cooked. I always told him he hadn't covered up his tracks." "Yes, but he paid you pretty well for your share of the work," I returned. I was getting mixed. The deception could not be kept up much longer, and I wondered what would happen when the truth became known. "Didn't pay me half of what I should have got.
But, independently of this, there was in Woodward's manner a hardness of outline, and in his conversation an unconscious absence of all reality and truth, together with a cold, studied formality, dry, sharp, and presumptuous, that required no extraordinary penetration to discover; for the worst of it was, that he made himself disagreeably felt, and excited those powers of scrutiny and analysis that are so peculiar to the generality of the other sex.
Let me see the statement." "Will you promise to hand it back if I do?" "Why not let me have it?" "Never mind why. Will you give it back?" "If you insist on it, you shall have it back," was Mr. Woodward's final reply, seeing that he could gain nothing by parleying. Stumpy drew forth the envelope. I anticipated what was coming. "Here it is," he said, and handed it over, as he supposed.
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