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Updated: June 22, 2025
Johnny Cantwell and Mortimer Grant were partners, trail mates, brothers in soul if not in blood. The ebb and flood of frontier life had brought them together, its hardships had united them until they were as one. They were something of a mystery to each other, neither having surrendered all his confidence, and because of this they retained their mutual attraction.
He taunted Johnny humorously on his lack of physical prowess, his lack of good looks and manly qualities something which had never failed to result in a friendly exchange of badinage; he even teased him about his defeat with the Katmai girl. Cantwell did respond finally, but afterward he found himself wondering if Mort could have been in earnest. He dismissed the thought with some impatience.
His present berth, as principal of Gridley H.S., was a much better one than he had ever occupied before. Mr. Cantwell cherished a hope of being able to keep the position for a good many years to come. Yet this would depend on the attitude of the Board of Education. In order not to take any step that would bring censure from the Board, Mr.
Cantwell. "I trust not many will bring coins of such low denomination." A look of bland innocence rested on Laura's face. "Why, sir," she remarked, "you asked us, Friday, to bring pennies. "Did I?" demanded the principal, a look of astonishment on his face. "Why, yes, sir," Belle Meade rattled on. "Don't you remember? You laughed, Mr.
"There was mighty little time to think, but I called out the two quickest words I could think of." "What did you call?" demanded the principal. "I yelled 'low bridge!" "A most idiotic expression," snorted the principal. "What on earth does it mean, anyway?" "It means to duck, sir," Prescott answered. "Duck?" retorted Mr. Cantwell, glaring suspiciously at the sober-faced young left end.
There's lemon pie. Mrs. John Cantwell sent it over. I never make lemon pie myself. Ten years ago I took the prize for lemon pies at the county fair, and I've never made any since for fear I'd lose my reputation for them." The first month of my stay passed not unpleasantly. The summer weather was delightful, and the sea air was certainly splendid.
Coy spoke: "Where's your riot, principal? Is this what you termed a mutiny?" Mr. Cantwell, who had gone to his post behind the desk, appeared to find difficulty in answering. "Humph!" muttered the chief, and, turning, strode from the room. His three policemen followed. Then there came indeed an awkward silence. Submaster Drake had abandoned the center of the stage to the principal. Mr.
He felt obliged to pause there, for an angry murmur started on the boys' side, and traveled over to where the girls were seated: "This morning's mutiny " began the principal again. The murmur grew louder. Mr. Cantwell looked up, more of fear than of anger in his eyes. Mr. Drake, who stood behind the principal, held up one hand appealingly.
At three minutes past eight o'clock the solemn voice of a minister repeating the litany of the Catholic Church was heard, and the head of the procession became visible through a thick fog, about thirty yards from the foot of the staircase. The Rev. Canon Cantwell walked first by the side of Allen.
Cantwell allowed himself a new one only once in two years. But new one had been due; he had just bought one, and now wore this glossy thing in the latest style. There was no time for more warning. The descending ball was in straight line with that elegant hat. Bump! The pigskin struck the hat full and fair, carrying it from the principal's head.
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