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"There ain't a merchant of any description in this county but his business is booming on account of the work in the factories. You can't antagonize the whole population of the place. Why, I dare say, some of your own money and Mrs. Remington's is earning three times what it was two years ago.
Remington's reply to the man who urges him to hush up the scandal gives a colour of personal disinterestedness to the story. "It's our duty to smash now openly in the sight of everyone. I've got that as clear and plain as prison whitewash.
Chard, whose dark face was deeply flushed, sat down at the table, lit a cigar, and watched his villainous accomplice place the two cups of coffee with some biscuits on a tray, take it to Miss Remington's door and knock. "Coffee, ma'am." "Thank you, steward," he heard Tessa's soft voice reply as Maoni opened the door and took the tray from Jessop.
"To induce two such representative women as yourselves to help my partner to the election he so well deserves." "Us?" "It is in your power, ladies, to demonstrate to Whitewater that George Remington's chivalry is not only on paper, but in his soul." "But how?" "By throwing yourselves upon his generosity and hospitality, at least during the campaign.
At this remark, embedded like a diamond in a rock, a shade of faintest color swam across Mrs. Smith's face and she swung him her profile and twirled at her rings. "And where Genevieve Remington's husband's interests are involved, ladies, need I go further in emphasizing your welcome into that little home?" "Heaven knows it would be a change from the boarding-house, Alys.
"There are other proofs," Charles earnestly continued. "There were the marks on my uncle's arm, and the letter he wrote to his lawyer under the influence of the terror in which Thalassa found him the fear caused by overhearing Remington's footsteps. Thalassa posted that letter." "Did he tell you so?" asked Barrant quickly. Then, as Charles remained silent, he went on
It was still the Wild West in those days, the Far West, the West of Owen Wister's stories and Frederic Remington's drawings, the West of the Indian and the buffalo-hunter, the soldier and the cow-puncher. That land of the West has gone now, "gone, gone with lost Atlantis," gone to the isle of ghosts and of strange dead memories.
He proceeded to give the required examinations in both the semaphore and the Morse codes, making them strict, as Miss Phillips had directed. Only four of the twelve girls passed on both codes Edith Evans, Ruth Henry, Ethel Todd, and Marjorie Wilkinson. And, to Mr. Remington's amazement, all of these girls passed the more difficult standard of thirty-two letters a minute!
Except on very few occasions, as in Alfred Henry Lewis's racy Wolfville stories and in Frederick Remington's vivid pictures, in Andy Adams's more minute chronicle The Log of a Cowboy, in Owen Wister's more sentimental The Virginian, and in O. Henry's more diversified Heart of the West and its fellows among his books, the cowboy has regularly moved on the plane of the sub-literary in dime novels and, latterly, in moving pictures.
Remington's governess, a poor girl whom Guy had taken a fancy to educate out of charity. "He seems very fond of his charity pupil, upon my word. He scarcely leaves her neighborhood at all," whispered old Mrs. Cutler, the mother of Maria, who, Guy said, once fancied Dr. Holbrook, and who had no particular objections to fancying him now, provided it could be reciprocal.
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