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Updated: June 11, 2025
"Talkin' about poor devils, there's one man in Banbridge ain't no poor devil. S'pose you know we've got a J. P. Morgan right amongst us?" "Who?" asked the postmaster; and Amidon, directly now the conversation was thoroughly shifted from himself, returned to his former place. "I know who he means," said he, importantly. "Oh, it's the man what's rented the Ranger place. They say he's a millionaire."
Some of their last winter's store had been miraculously preserved, and Minna saw the way to a few pennies thereby. He could quite openly say that he had been to the barber-shop to-day, having seen Amidon there, therefore he was quite easy in his mind, and leaned back in his chair with perfect content. One of the children at home cried all the time.
The visitor started swiftly to leave, then as suddenly turned back. "Good God, man!" he blazed; "are you plumb daft to stickle for little niceties now? I tell you I just helped to pick up Judge Amidon and his son, murdered in their own hayfield not three miles from here, the boy as full of arrows as a cushion of pins. This isn't ancient history, man, but took place this very day.
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