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Updated: June 18, 2025
"Yes, even Smallbones," shrugged Abe, sipping his whiskey. Angel Gay bolted his whiskey and laid a gentle hand firmly on Horsley's shoulder. "No," he said, "not Smallbones; not even Doc Crombie, both deadgut fellers sure. But you are the man, Abe. For elegance o' langwidge, an' flow mark you you you are a born speaker, sure. Say, I believe that rye of Rocket's was in a gin bottle.
But Doc Crombie was studying the ground. Jim sprang up and began to move round his horse, feeling the cinchas of his saddle. He felt he could reasonably do this, and further disturb the underlay without exciting suspicion. It was a dreadful moment for him, for he noted that all eyes were closely scrutinizing the ground. Suddenly the doctor fixed an eagle glance on his face. Jim met it.
There is nothing in Kames, nor Collins, nor Crombie, nor Hobbes, nor any other writer, more perfectly unequivocal. “But one thing more,” says he, “I would observe concerning what is vulgarly called liberty, namely, that power and opportunity for one to do and conduct as he will, or according to his choice, is all that is meant by it, without taking into the meaning of the word anything of the cause of that choice, or at all considering how the person came to have such a volition, or internal habit and bias; whether it was determined by some internal antecedent volition, or whether it happened without a cause; whether it were necessarily connected with something foregoing, or not connected.
Blanche lifted her eyebrows, and a little sigh escaped her. She was reflecting, perhaps, that a place all to herself would be rather lonely. "You have never met my father?" she asked. "No. I have seen him." "Well, I think you will like him when you know him." "I don't doubt it!" Crombie exclaimed with fervor, worshiping the very furniture that surrounded Blanche.
Jim was sitting in the buckboard beside Doc Crombie. The rest of the crowd were in the saddle. "I swear it, laddie," he cried in a fear. "An' an' you got that gold?" The boy's face was suddenly contorted with fierce bodily pain. "Yes, yes, and it's yours when we come back." Another glance showed the hanging party on the outskirts of the village. They were passing slowly.
When the details of their wedding were under discussion, Crombie said to Blanche: "Oughtn't we to have an old shoe thrown after the carriage as we drive away?" She smiled; looked him full in the eyes with a peculiar tenderness in which there was a bright, delicious sparkle of humor. "No; old shoes are much too useful to be wasted that way."
Jim Thorpe, you killed Will Henderson!" The little man's fervor, his boldness, his shrewd argument carried his audience with him, as he stood pointing dramatically at the accused but unflinching man. Doc Crombie was carried along with the rest even against his own judgment. Peter Blunt and Angel Gay, with Jake Wilkes, were the only men present who were left unconvinced.
Every eye was on the trust manipulator. He hated it. He hated them all, but Doc Crombie most of all. But the tall, lean man was impatient. He knew it was a race between him and a baby in a distant quarter of the village. "How much?" he threatened the hesitating man. "A dollar," Smallbones muttered in the midst of profound silence. Even the chips of the poker players had ceased to rattle.
Well, there have been few enough since," said his comrade, pressing his eyelids firmly together, as if even then tempted to give way to the weakness that he scorned. "And, for turning me back, Hugh, it was beyond your power. I had taken my resolution, and you did but show me the way to execute it." "You have not inquired after those you left behind," observed Hugh Crombie.
It was the way anything out of the ordinary always affected them. The fact of the matter was Doc Crombie, who was doctor, veterinary surgeon, horse dealer, and a sort of self-elected mayor of the place, was going to hold a meeting in the saloon. He was going to make a formal speech, and the speech was the point.
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