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And if you've got a bank in your eye, you'd best pay particular attintion to your dustin' and your dishwashin'. Them's your two first steps." Little Jim pondered as well as he was able. It seemed to him that the first steps to everything in life, according to his mother, were dusting and dishwashing. His face was downcast and he put the dishes on the table in an absent-minded way.
It appealed to him immensely that she could take such a facer and come up smiling. There were no signs of worry wrinkles on her face when the maid admitted a caller half an hour later. Oliver Dustin was the name on the card. He was a remittance man, a tame little parlor pet whose vocation was to fetch and carry for pretty women, and by some odd trick of fate he had been sifted into the Northland.
Life, mused Grandma, was a matter full of sweet and incomprehensible things, things that now, after long years when the stories were almost finished, seemed right and just enough but that at the time were cruel and hard to bear. There was Roger Allan and that lonely stone in the peaceful cemetery. It still seemed a cruel tragedy. Like Mrs. Jerry Dustin she wondered often about it.
And slim Mollie once more grew frightened as she watched the proprietor setting out glass after glass of foaming beer. Mrs. Dustin was busy talking to the children and didn't seem to see the foaming glasses until Joe called, "Come on, everybody line up." Then the lovely mother face was raised and at the look that came into the blue eyes every child there grew sick and miserable.
"No, I don't want a single thing; I'm well enough." Mrs. Field's tone was almost surly. She held out her hand for the photograph. "I must be goin'," she continued; "I ain't got my dustin' done. I jest come across this, an' I thought I'd show it to you, an' see what you said." "Well, I shouldn't have dreamed but what it was yours; but then you an' your sister did look jest alike.
Dustin were listening silently to the song that always brought back old faces and scenes and that old haunting ache for the things of long ago. "That's my favorite tune," said the proprietor suddenly to Mrs. Dustin. "It's one of mine too," she smiled back with soft, shining eyes. "My wife's name was Annie," he said again and as suddenly. "Have you lost her?" Mrs. Dustin asked gently. "Yes.
They had reached a point below the town, where the road ran between two hills in a narrow pass. A party of Indians, eleven in number, had seen the children and were running after them. Mr. Dustin spurred his horse between the children and the savage foe, and shouting to his darlings to fly, and bidding the oldest carry the youngest, he drew rein at the pass and cocked his gun.
Though none were killed instantly at this shot, three were wounded, two so severely that they died next day. The Indians abandoned the pursuit of the resolute father, who continued to fight as he retreated, and turned their attention to less dangerous victories, so Mr. Dustin escaped with his children. Mrs. Neff, the nurse in attendance on Mrs.
In this emergency, Marshall Reid, brother-in-law of Lieutenant Dustin, the crack aviator of the navy, who had been aboard the Pennsylvania, volunteered to carry messages from the President to Philadelphia and to bring back news. Reid himself was one of the best amateur flying men in the country and he did me the honour to choose me as his companion.
Wasn't y' in the trenches? I wonder y' don't lick me y'reself. Ho! ha! ha! ha! ha!" At that, the red anger spread itself among the stubble of the same hue on the Father's still unshaved jaws. "No," he answered grimly, speaking with the thicker brogue that always came into his English along with his wrath. "No, Oi can't give ye the dustin' that's comin' t' ye, Barber."
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