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Hadn't scarcely come to a stop when off he jumps and waves his fins and gives three cheers for it." "For what?" "Ohio. I'm tellin' you. He ramps across the track yippin' 'Ohio! Ohio! Ohio! whoopity-yoop. He come right at me and I says, 'Watch yehself, Buddy. You'll git left." "What did he say to that?" asked Banneker indulgently. "Never looked at me no more than a doodle-bug.
But would Brant ever let go of evidence? Not you, ol' buddy. There you dangled, limp as a wilted banana while the balloon drifted along with you. I started toward you as fast as I could go, which wasn't very fast with water up to my waist." "Wish I could have seen it," Rick said with a grin. "So do I," Scotty assured him. "Camillion and his friends were also somewhat interested in you.
"Robert, I am discouraged over you. All that I teach you in the winter seems to evaporate from your mind during the summer when you go out riding with the boys." Buddy wiped his face with an up-and-down motion on the roller towel and clanked across to the cupboard which he opened investigatively. "Any pie?" he questioned as he peered into the corners.
Besides, you and your sister were so kind as to drive the cows home for the man who cut his foot, and as he is a friend of mine I want to return your kindness to him. Jump upon my back, Buddy." "Oh, I'm afraid I'll fall," said Buddy, when he saw how high up Gup's back was from the ground. "Nonsense!" exclaimed the horse. "I wouldn't let you fall for the world.
If she gets up again, of course she'll have to know; but we won't cross that bridge till we come to it. And Buddy, son, whatever happens, your old pappy ain't goin' to believe that you'll be the first Gordon to die in the gutter. You've got better blood in you than what that calls for."
"I may write an article on this for the Journal of the Optical Society," Scotty said. "Works fine. Our buddy is a Sudanese, from the looks of him. Also, he has a comrade. A big, sloppy type in a black coat and a tarboosh. I'd hate to tangle with either of them." Rick thought of Scotty's comment that it wouldn't take much of a detective to realize he had the cat on him.
"Who's that?" cried the man in the bed, sitting up suddenly. "All right, Al, he's a buddy o' mine," said Chrisfield. "He's taken off his uniform." "Jesus, you got guts," said the man in the bed. Andrews looked at him sharply. A piece of towelling, splotched here and there with dried blood, was wrapped round his head, and a hand, swathed in bandages, was drawn up to his body.
I would not have hurt you willingly." The woman tossed her head and turned away; when she spoke, it was wearily: "I might have known I couldn't make the jump. I never did win a big race. A good loser, eh? Well, I've had enough practice at it. How is Buddy? Hurt, I suppose. His young life is blasted; he'll never trust another woman."
And in the next instant Jasper Jay thrust a towsled head through the pine-needles that screened his sleeping-place. "Who's there?" he shouted in a hoarse and angry voice. Buddy Brown-Thrasher did not answer. He kept still as a mouse. And waited for some time hoping to hear Jasper's sweet notes again but he waited in vain. But Buddy had heard them once.
The door opened slowly to let in a tall, stoop-shouldered man with a long face and long teeth. "Who's the frawg?" he asked in a startled way, with one hand on the door knob. "All right, Smiddy; it ain't a frawg; it's a guy Chris knows. He's taken his uniform off." "'Lo, buddy," said Smiddy, shaking Andrews's hand. "Gawd, you look like a frawg." "That's good," said Andrews.
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