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Updated: May 18, 2025
An air of frankly metallic enterprise. Guns and churns and barrels of nails and beautiful shiny butcher knives. Chester Dashaway's House Furnishing Emporium. A vista of heavy oak rockers with leather seats, asleep in a dismal row. Billy's Lunch. Thick handleless cups on the wet oilcloth-covered counter. An odor of onions and the smoke of hot lard.
"Jerry Dawson," was Dave Dashaway's reply. "That is the machine I want, Mr. Randolph," said Dave Dashaway. It was two days after the young aviator had told his friends at Columbus the name of the person he suspected of stealing the aero-hydroplane, the Drifter from the Interstate Aeroplane Company.
I had been a drinking man ten years, and it got such a hold on me that I could not resist taking it. I had tried a number of times to reform, and at one time, was in the Dashaway's Home, in California, where they steep everything in liquor, but when I came out I still had the desire to drink, and only kept from it for nine months.
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