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"Bolles, Bolles," said he, "you have got the New England conscience rank. Plymouth Rock is a pudding to your heart. Remind me to pray for you first spare minute I get. Now follow me close. He'll be much more useful to us alive." They slipped from their horses, stole swiftly down a shoulder of the hill, and waited among some brush. The bells jingled unsuspectingly onward to this ambush.
The three men sat down, in what might be described as a one-two-three attitude: domination, tacit acceptance of this domination, and servility. "Do you know Richard Warrington, the playwriter?" "That snob? Yes, I know who he is, and I'd like to punch his head for him, too." McQuade smiled. This manifest rancor on Bolles' part would make things easier than he thought. "Well, listen.
Warrington must never get a chance to accept." Bolles looked at Martin. McQuade saw the look, and, interpreting it, laughed. "These are no dime-novel days. We don't kill men to get 'em out of the way. We take a look into their past and use it as a club." "I begin to see," said Martin. "Warrington must be side-tracked before the convention. Good. That'll be simple." "Not very," McQuade admitted.
The banker shook his head and pointed to the signs on the wall: "Checks for money, money for checks, no mouth-bets." Bolles felt in his pockets and repeated the futile search. "Not a damned cent!" he shouted. "Cleaned out!" "Give Mr. Bolles a ten-spot," said the banker. "But you can't play it here, Bolles," was the warning. Bolles stuffed the note in his pocket and rose.
His arms were folded across his breast, which rose and fell with deep intakes. His face, in the shadow, was no more readable than that of the miniature sphinx paper-weight that rested on McQuade's desk. But Bolles was coming. So they waited. The end of McQuade's cigar waxed and waned according to his inhalations.
"Bring me a little whisky no, make it an old-fashioned cocktail. That'll be about right." "Mr. McQuade has a job for you, Bolles, if you're willing to undertake it." "I've got some time on my hands just now," replied Bolles. "Contract work?" "After a fashion," said McQuade grimly. "Eat your dinner and we'll go up stairs to my office. What I have to say can't be said here." "All right, Mr. McQuade.
In a few miles, however, before they had come to the ferry over Snake River, the recent leave-taking and his employer's kind but dominating repression lifted from the boy's spirit. His gray eye wakened keen again, and he began to whistle light opera tunes, looking about him alertly, like the sparrow-hawk that he was. "Ever see Jeannie Winston in 'Fatinitza'?" he inquired of Mr. Bolles.
In Paris several resident Americans, among whom were May Ellis Bolles, whom Mrs. Getsinger had won over to the Faith, Miss Pearson, and Ann Apperson, both nieces of Mrs. Hearst, with Mrs. Thornburgh and her daughter, were added to the party, the number of which was later swelled in Egypt by the addition of Dr. Khayru’lláh’s daughters and their grand-mother whom he had recently converted.
He was told yes, that for the present he was their coachman. Their horses were tired and would follow, tied behind. "We're weary, too," said Drake, getting in. "Take your legs out of my way or I'll kick off your shins. Bolles, are you fixed warm and comfortable? Now start her up for Harper ranch, Uncle." "What are you proposing to do with me?" inquired Uncle Pasco.
And the excellent Chinaman took pride in the meal of welcome that he prepared. "Supper's now," said Drake to his men. "Sit anywhere you feel like. Don't mind whose chair you're taking and we'll keep our guns on." Thus they followed him, and sat. The boy took his customary perch at the head of the table, with Brock at his right. "I miss old Bolles," he told his foreman.
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