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Updated: May 19, 2025
And he did give me letters which speak that our fleet is all at Lisbon; Mr. S. J. Davey, of 47, Great Russell Street, Bloomsbury, in 1889 had in his possession nine long letters from Creed to Pepys.
"These entertainments they have nowadays. Spend all the money out of town band from Indianapolis, chicken salad and darkey waiters from Chicago! And what I want to know is, What's this town goin' to do about the nigger question?" "What about it?" asked Mr. Davey, belligerently. "What about it?" Mr. Arp mocked, fiercely. "You better say, 'What about it?" "Well, what?" maintained Mr.
You blowed Dolver apart for killin' that damned, slick-eyed pardner of yourn Davey Langan. Do you want to know who sent Langan out? I'm tellin' you it was me! Me me!" He fairly yelled the last words, and stiffened, holding the fingers of his right hand clawlike, above the butt of the holstered pistol.
"My soul!" said Mr. Davey. "It seems to know some of us!" "Yes," agreed Mr. Arp, his voice recovered, "and I know IT." "You do?" exclaimed the Colonel. "I do, and so do you. It's Fanny Louden's boy, 'Gene, come home for his Christmas holidays." "By George! you're right," cried Flitcroft; "I recognize him now." "But what's the matter with him?" asked Mr. Bradbury, eagerly.
And he did give me letters which speak that our fleet is all at Lisbon; Mr. S. J. Davey, of 47, Great Russell Street, Bloomsbury, in 1889 had in his possession nine long letters from Creed to Pepys.
I might have been like Joan in many ways. And, Davey, this could not have happened had I known the real truth concerning the girls." "No, I do not think it could. And it goes to prove my theory that two thirds of the inherited traits are common to us all. The whole business lies in the handling of them by the one third that does come down the line.
By the force and unexpectedness with which he came he burst through them, and dealing Davey a blow on the head with his pistol, and Muggridge one in the face with his fist, which left them both stunned and bleeding, he flew down the stairs and out of the house by the very window through which he had entered.
There was still a light in the little sailors' tavern; and, entering, he asked the woman who kept it, "if she knew of any ship which was going to sail next morning?" "Why, your'n is, bean't it, Maister Davey!" she asked, turning to a rough-looking sailor, who sat smoking in the bar. "Ees," grunted the man. "Will you take me on board?" said Eric. "You be a runaway, I'm thinking?" "Never mind.
"Hilloa!" exclaimed the skipper with a sudden start, next morning, as he saw Eric's recumbent figure on the ratlin-stuff, "Who be this young varmint!" "Oh, I brought him aboord last night," said Davey; "he wanted to be cabun-buoy." "Precious like un he looks. Never mind, we've got him and we'll use him."
And so Hallowell knew he had scattered his words on fertile mental soil. And yet Harlan would not have taken the trail that led to the Rancho Seco had not the killing of his friend, Davey Langan, followed closely upon the story related to him by the marshal.
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