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Updated: June 11, 2025
Spennie bit his tongue and leaped three inches into the air. "Hello, Charteris!" he said gaspingly. "Spennie, my boyhood's only friend," said Charteris, "where are you off to?" "What what do you mean? I was just going upstairs." "Then don't. You're wanted. Our prompter can't be found. I want you to take his place till he blows in. Come along."
And though some fifty years had passed over the old negro's head, he sprang with the agility of boyhood's days; although, as the poor fellow often remarked, "he had a wonderful constitution for enduring rest," the thought of his good missus's surprise, when she should learn of their morning's adventure, gave him new life, and he fairly danced about the beach for joy.
It was in that district, which had become dear to him, that he was sought out by the kindly remembrance of Abbe de Wry, his boyhood's friend, who was intimate with Madame de Maurepas.
This human loss is felt even more in the case of a return to some small centre, a village or hamlet where we knew every one, and our intimacy with the people has produced the sense of being one in blood with them. It is greatest of all when we return to a childhood's or boyhood's home.
The first time I met Gertrude I could have sworn my boyhood's love was restored to me; she is so entirely the image of what Agnes was. To possess themselves of my home and property is all that brought them here; and whether as my wife or as my mother-in- law I think Agnes cares little. The first she sees is impracticable, and now to make me wed Gertrude is her aim. Like mother, like daughter!"
He was wondering if, underneath the drooping brim of her hat, amongst the curling tendrils of golden-brown hair, there might not be a hint of red to show under the sunlight. He was thinking, too, how pretty was the name, Ruth Atheson. It was English enough to make him think of her under certain trees in a certain old park of boyhood's days. "Do you know each other?"
"Don't decide don't decide. Listen, and think of it the pity of it! For over twenty years I have been attending Francis Heathcote and seen him constantly, with never a word of greeting from him, never a sign of recognition. He is not merely my patient, he is my boyhood's dearest friend, and since his accident I have watched him closely; at first with hope, but later with despair.
"I met, a moment ago, my old friend and boyhood's companion, Jim McGlasher, chief of the Bureau for the Dissemination of Useless Information, and," lowering his voice to a mysterious but audible whisper, "I shall see him again to-morrow."
His grievances have been his sole theme from boyhood's happy days, the basis of his conversation, his actuating motive, the very backbone of his personal entity. Now they are gone, the fine gold has become dim, and the weapons of war have perished.
He did not sleep for hours, and when the dawn was near, his boyhood memories filled his brain and he was back in the livery stable garret once again, and repossessed of all his boyhood's ways and words he softly swore himself to sleep. A Fair Rider Life at Cedar Mountain had dropped to normal.
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