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Holdin' night meetin's and wearin' butternut badges, and talkin' about resistin' draft. Hogs wintered well, and looks as if Pap'd have a nice drove to sell in the Fall. Pap'll put in 'bout 90 acres o' corn, and'll have to hustle his plowin' ez soon's the ground's fit. Little Sammy Woggles had a fight with Beecham's boy, who's six months older, and licked him.
"Mr Archer, you presume! But throwing such empty banter aside, is Mr Beecham really bad-tempered?" "Bad-tempered is a tame name for it. You should have seen the dust he raised the other day with old Benson. He just did perform." I was always hearing of Harold Beecham's temper, and wished I could see a little of it.
She was the one person he knew south of the lines who would help him, yet he had been trying to keep the thought of going to her out of his mind. It might involve her in danger. Three miles above the Beecham's there was another farm. He had planned to go there, to tell them that he had just come through the Union lines to enlist with the South, and ask for food.
It was not long before I fetched up at Dogtrap homestead, where, tethered to the "six-foot" paling fence which surrounded the flower-garden, was Harold Beecham's favourite, great, black, saddle-horse Warrigal. The vicious brute turned his beautiful head, displaying a white star on the forehead, and snorted as I approached.
If I don't walk to Portslade and back every second day, I go up three or four pounds. Then there's nothing for it but the physic, and that's what settles me. Can you take physic?" "I took three Beecham's pills once." "Oh, that's nothing. Can you take castor-oil?" Esther looked in amazement at the little boy at her side. Swindles had overheard the question and burst into a roar of laughter.
Harold would he good to me, and would lift me from this life of poverty which I hated, to one of ease. Should I elect to remain where I was, till the grave there was nothing before me but the life I was leading now: my only chance of getting above it was by marriage, and Harold Beecham's offer was the one chance of a lifetime. Perhaps he could manage me well enough. Yes; I had better marry him.
But now he realized that he could not walk four miles one mile to the Beecham's, then three more to the farm. If his legs would carry him for one mile, they would be doing well. It was difficult even to stand, and the woods and sky lurched and whirled about him. "I'll go to Marjorie," he muttered. "Get word to her some way. She'll help." He started for the road, then stopped.
She knew by experience "what young 'uns is in a house." There was something, perhaps, in all the preparations for her departure which had thrown dust in Phoebe Beecham's eyes.
Beecham twenty years before would have considered splendid, but which now they condescended to, as not so large as they could wish, but still comfortable. The drawing-room above was larger, a bright and pleasant room, furnished with considerable "taste." Behind the dining-room, a smaller room was Mr. Beecham's study, or the library, as it was sometimes called. Copperhead over the mantelpiece.
"That will give me more than enough time if the ferry is running, and just enough time if I must follow the river to the Chattanooga ferry." Mr. Beecham's house was only ten miles from the town, figured on the map; but the weather made map figuring hazardous.
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