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Updated: June 22, 2025
Then Colonel Fortescue noticed that Broussard looked haggard and worn, and his dark skin had turned darker. His face and manner assumed a gravity which made Colonel Fortescue feel that Broussard's errand was not one of pleasure. "I am on sick leave," said Broussard. "We were in the jungles eight months and every one of us had fever. I was the last to come down, and I had a bad case.
"I ask you this," cried Lawrence, "in the name of our mother, for you and I, Victor Broussard, are brothers of the half blood." By that time, Lawrence was weeping convulsively. Broussard's lighted cigar dropped to the floor, and lay there smoldering. "But but " stammered Broussard, "my half-brother, my mother's son by her first marriage, died when I was a boy. My mother wore mourning for him."
The horse has a pedigree longer than mine, and I have often noticed that ancestors are worth a great deal more to horses than to human beings." "Oh, the price can be managed," said the Colonel, good naturedly. "Broussard's horses will probably be sold for a song." Gamechick was not sold for a song, however, but for an excellent price.
But somebody else always does wrong enough for both. Where is Lawrence now?" "At the block house, a mile away," replied Broussard. "I wished to see you before Lawrence gives himself up." Broussard's strange agitation was increasing. Colonel Fortescue took up a newspaper and glanced at it, to give Broussard a chance to recover himself. In a minute or two Broussard managed to speak calmly.
She became the chaplain's right hand for work among the soldiers' children, and from daybreak until she went to bed at night Anita was ever employed at something and throwing into that something wonderful force and perseverance. One thing became immediately noticeable to Colonel and Mrs. Fortescue; this was that Anita never spoke Broussard's name from the hour he left Fort Blizzard.
Anita was late for dinner that evening, and at the table, as she took her lace handkerchief from the bosom of her little blue evening gown, Broussard's note came out with the handkerchief, and fell upon the floor. Her father and mother in kindness looked away, but Kettle, with well-meant but indiscreet good will, picked the letter up, saying: "Hi!
"That's queer," said the Colonel, "all of Mr. Broussard's chickens are cock chickens." This would have abashed a less ardent partisan, but it only stimulated Kettle. "Come to think of it, Miss Betty," Kettle continued stoutly, "them chickens is cock chickens, but Mr.
Broussard is coming to the dinner," continued Mrs. Fortescue after a moment. "He sings so charmingly. It would be delightful to have him sing and Anita to play a violin obligato." "Admirable! Admirable!" cried Neroda, "Mr. Broussard has a superb voice much too good for an amateur." Mrs. Fortescue laughed; Broussard's beautiful voice was one of the Colonel's grave objections to him.
He would not hear to it; I saw the color slowly leave his face; his thin lips curled back and showed his teeth, until, fearing a serious outbreak, I stepped back as if I would lay aside the foil. He pressed me close, so close indeed I could not if I would drop my guard. He touched me once or twice. "I call the bout a draw," declared Levert, who had himself observed Broussard's unusual energy.
He stopped and began to pat Gamechick's beautiful neck and the horse, who was, like all intelligent horses, a sentimentalist, rubbed his nose against Broussard's head, and said, as plainly as a horse can say: "Dear master, I love you still." Colonel Fortescue, coming out of the gate, saw Broussard, and his heart softened as he recalled the last time he had seen Broussard riding Gamechick.
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