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Updated: June 22, 2025
I should take at least twelve pounds of sugar off the allowance for the year and four gallon less of molasses than you was calculatin' on." He sat down and Sister Cantwell rose. She was a fat woman, famous in the southern Ohio country for the lavish table she set. "Short sweetening," she said in a thin high voice, "is dreadful high.
"I saw you ahead of me, on the street," Dave rattled on. "I was trying to overtake you, without calling, when that thing came whizzing by your head. Say, Dick, I wonder " "What?" demanded Prescott. "Oh, of course, it's a crazy notion. But I was wondering if Mr. Cantwell could have it in for you so hard that he'd put anyone up to lying in ambush for you." Dick started, then thought a few moments.
He opened his lips, reconsidered, spoke softly to the team, then lifted the heavy dog whip and smote the Malemutes with all his strength. The men resumed their journey without further words, but each was cursing inwardly. "So! I talk too much," Grant thought. The accusation struck in his mind and he determined to speak no more. "He blames me," Cantwell reflected, bitterly.
The coincidence seems a strange one, that in the same paper, which thus disposes of the rescript, the same paper wherein appear the letters of Doctor Crolly, Doctor Cantwell, and Mr.
But you, my dear Cantwell, I am afraid you have failed to make the boys respect you at all times. The power of enforcing respect is the basis of all discipline." "Then what shall I do with the young men this time?" "Since you have -er -missed your opportunity, you -er -can do nothing, now, but let it pass. Let them imagine, from day to day, that sentence is still suspended and hovering over them."
When they hitched up, on the next morning, Cantwell placed the ax, bit down, between the tarpaulin and the sled rail, leaving the helve projecting where his hand could reach it. Grant thrust the barrel of the rifle beneath a lashing, with the butt close by the handle-bars, and it was loaded.
"Why, the principal offender is named " Here Mr. Cantwell paused, and looked rather astonished. "Tell me, Mr. Gadsby, what is Prescott, of the sophomore class, doing here?" The principal's glance had just rested on Dick, who sat at a small side table, a little pile of copy paper on the table, a pencil in his hand. "Oh -ah -Prescott, Richard Prescott?" inquired Mr. Gadsby.
Dick's glance, as he halted before the platform and turned to look at Mr. Cantwell, was one of simple inquiry. "Mr. Prescott, you are fully informed as to the hoax that was perpetrated on me yesterday morning?" "You mean the incident of the pennies, I think, sir?" returned the boy, inquiringly. "You know very well that I do, young man," retorted Mr. Cantwell, rapping his desk with one hand.
The ball arched upward, somewhat, though it did not travel high. But to Dick, standing still to watch the effect of his kick there came a sudden jolt. A man had just appeared, walking through the entrance passage. His head, well up above the sloping sides of the passage at this point, was not right in line with the ball. And that man was Principal Cantwell!
Two hundred yards, and a steep bank loomed above, up and over which they rushed, with Cantwell yelling encouragement; then a light showed, and they were in the lee of a low-roofed hut. A sick native, huddled over a Yukon stove, made them welcome to his mean abode, explaining that his wife and son had gone to Unalaklik for supplies.
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