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Updated: June 26, 2025
A precious scoundrel, as it turned out, was this same Moreau, with more sins to answer for than many a convicted jail bird, and with not one follower left to do him reverence except, perhaps, that lonely girl, self secluded at the Hays. Hay himself, though weak, was beginning to sit up. Dade, Blake and Ray were all once more housed in garrison.
There flourished in the village life of Washington two old blokes no other word can proprly describe them Jack Dade, who signed himself "the Honorable John W. Dade, of Virginia;" and Beau Hickman, who hailed from nowhere and acquired the pseudonym through sheer impudence. In one way and another they lived by their wits, the one all dignity, the other all cheek.
The next day "Col. John W. Dade, of Virginia," was appointed keeper of the Federal prison of the District of Columbia. He assumed his post with empressement, called the prisoners before him and made them an address. "Ladies and gentlemen," said he; "I have been chosen by my friend, the President of the United States, as superintendent of this eleemosynary institution.
He laughed shortly, looked at the pistol, and then slowly jammed it back into the holster. "You're too good to lose," he said. "I'm savin' you for another time." "Thanks," said Dade dryly, though the ashen face of him showed how well he realized his narrow escape. "I reckon we understand each other now.
Conway's boarding house in Oakdale and stopped. The occupants of the car did not belong in Oakdale; they came from Wyndham, and the machine was the property of the father of the oldest one, who was at the wheel. This was Orville Foxhall, second baseman of the Wyndham nine. At Foxhall's side sat a husky, raw-boned, long-armed chap, Dade Newbert, the pitcher on which Wyndham placed great dependence.
There was the hum of confusion while the hungry sought the barbecue pits. Dade, his face settled into gloomy foreboding in spite of certain heartening circumstances, went slowly away to his room; where Jack, refusing to take any interest in the sports, lay sprawled upon the bed with a cigarette gone cold between his lips and his eyes fixed hardly upon the ceiling.
"How long did you say they've been gone?" he asked, without looking at Bill. "Ten or fifteen minutes. Say, you can't do anything!" Dade was already half-way up the block, a swirl of sand-dust marking his flight. Bill stared after him distressfully. "He'll go and get his light put out and he won't help Jack a damn bit," he told himself miserably, and went in.
Colonel Dade was seated in the barroom of Brown's Hotel early one morning, waiting for someone to come in and invite him to drink. Presently McConnell arrived. It was his custom when he entered a saloon to ask the entire roomful, no matter how many, "to come up and licker," and, of course, he invited the solitary stranger.
Take a lemonade, a ginger ale, anything to be sociable. I want you to tell me about yourself." Dade took a lemonade. Although Cavendale had stated that he wished Dade to tell about himself, he rattled off a rambling statement of his own affairs, claiming that he was "in on a big deal" that meant thousands to him. "It's a snap," he asserted. "It's the greatest thing I ever struck.
I'm going to kill him. Let it go at that." He turned abruptly and walked away to the stable, and the two stood perfectly still and watched him out of sight. "He'll do it, too," said Dade distressfully. "There's something in this I don't understand but he'll do it."
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