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Updated: May 10, 2025
"Say, you fellows hustle!" breathed Greg excitedly, as he joined the crowd. "There's Mr. Fits over at the corner opposite. There he's turning and running down Abbott Street!" Like a shot the crowd of boys wheeled and was off in chase. But Hen didn't go with them. Toby Ross, who brought up the rear, saw young Dutcher turn and speed homeward as fast as his legs would carry him.
"There, you see," muttered Dutcher angrily, "you've gone and fastened the nickname on me!" "Anvil! Anvil!" yelled other tormentors. "You're all of you about the meanest crowd of fellows I ever saw," grunted Hen, as he started slowly to skate away. "And that's all the thanks you get, Dick, for trying to use him a bit decently," jeered Greg Holmes.
You've admitted that you've been hired to work against us to help spoil our peace and comfort. Now, you've got to tell us all the rest of it, or you'll have to take the consequences!" "Say, don't be mean with a feller!" pleaded Dutcher, ready to snivel. "We're not mean with you," Dick insisted. "We've a right to protect ourselves, and we're going to do it.
That caught even Hen, who made up in curiosity what he lacked in courage. Dutcher was out of his bunk in an instant, slipping on shoes and some clothing before he followed the others. "You see," Dick was explaining, "I've been thinking of this matter ever since we heard the first 'ghost' noises. I knew the noises had to come from something.
That brought Dave Darrin out. One by one the other fellows followed all except Hen. "You don't catch me out of my bunk until breakfast is ready," announced young Dutcher. Dick wheeled impatiently, at this hint, but Dave Darrin whispered in his ear: "Let it go at that, Dick.
And the other Central Grammar fellows back in Gridley will be so proud of you!" "You don't have to tell 'em," urged Hen Dutcher pleadingly. "No; we don't have to," confirmed Tom Reade. "But we can. And most likely we will. We want to separate the wheat from the chaff at the old Central Gram." "But, please don't tell 'em," whined Hen. "We'll see about that," said Dick Prescott.
"Turkey?" blurted Hen Dutcher, his eyes dancing with anticipated pleasure. "I didn't know you had any grub as fine as that." "I've been thinking," proposed Prescott, "that we might as well have some of that turkey for breakfast this morning." "Why, is it already cooked?" cried Hen. "Oh, no," Dick admitted.
Working gently, in order not to alarm the spent bird, Dick and Greg soon had the window open, and Greg drew in the all but frozen little flyer. "Say, we can have pigeon stew, or pie, if anyone knows how to make a pie," cried Hen Dutcher. "You scoundrel!" breathed Greg fiercely. "Your stomach makes a brute of you, Hen Dutcher!"
All the known rookeries accessible to plume-hunters had been totally destroyed. Two years ago, the secret discovery of several small, hidden colonies prompted William Dutcher, President of the National Association of Audubon Societies, and Mr. T. Gilbert Pearson, Secretary, to attempt the protection of those colonies.
"Well who are they? name them." Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, "Where's Nicholas Vedder?" There was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied, in a thin piping voice, "Nicholas Vedder! why, he is dead and gone these eighteen years! There was a wooden tombstone in the churchyard that used to tell all about him, but that's rotten and gone too." "Where's Brom Dutcher?"
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