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The posse, four men all told the wounded deputy having crawled out of the fight after Dyke's first shot fell back after the preliminary fusillade, dismounted, and took shelter behind rocks and trees. On that rugged ground, fighting from the saddle was impracticable. Dyke, in the meanwhile, held his fire, for he knew that, once his pistol was empty, he would never be allowed time to reload.
He then wrote to Sir John Methuen Poore, the Lieutenant, and honestly told him that, as he was not concerned in Dyke's keeping up the price of his wheat, he should not attend at Salisbury, as he was going to Boreham, where he had particular business. Boreham was near Warminster, not more than 20 miles from Salisbury, and Everly was 16 miles.
Brooke's Tennyson: His Art and Relation to Modern Life. Van Dyke's The Poetry of Tennyson. Gordon's The Social Ideals of Alfred Tennyson. Lackyer's Tennyson as a Student and Poet of Nature. Luce's Handbook to the Works of Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Woodberry's Swinburne. Thomas's Algernon Charles Swinburne: A Critical Study. Knowles's Kipling Primer. Le Galliene's Rudyard Kipling, A Criticism.
Dyke," he said, reassuringly. "We know where he is, I believe. You and the little tad stay here, and Hooven and I will go after him." About two hours later, Harran brought Dyke back to Los Muertos in Hooven's wagon. He had found him at Caraher's saloon, very drunk. There was nothing maudlin about Dyke's drunkenness. In him the alcohol merely roused the spirit of evil, vengeful, reckless.
Dyke's color scheme on the following afternoon, tending to an over-employment of black, when an impressive and noiseless roadster purred its way to the curb, there discharging a quite superb specimen of manhood in glorious raiment. The motorist paused to regard with unfeigned surprise the design of the house front.
Van Dyke's work is earnestly commended, since without this commentary, or such as are to be obtained in other critical sources, there is much of poetic beauty, of sorrow-brooding thought, and especially of emotional reflection on life, death, and immortality, in the hundred and thirty lyrics of which the poem consists, which will be lost to even the thoughtful reader.
Martin Dyke, amateur house painter, continued blindly to bedeck the face of a ruinous world with radiant hues. Dazedly the artist descended from his plank to face her. "Are you going?" he demanded. A perfectly justifiable response to this unauthorized query would have been that it was no concern of his. But there was that in Martin Dyke's face which hurt the girl to see. "Yes," she replied.
"Now, there's an idea, Jim," he observed to the boy behind the soda-water fountain; "I know a little tad that would just about jump out of her skin for that. Think I'll have to take it with me." "How's Sidney getting along?" the other asked, while wrapping up the package. Dyke's enthusiasm had made of his little girl a celebrity throughout Bonneville.
On the way the two gave to the unfortunate Freshman such peculiarities, idiosyncrasies and hallucinations as seemed good; they warned the physician that he must never be left alone, and that he ought to be humored to the top of his bent in regard to his fancied attack of appendicitis. "Then it's understood?" said Mason, as they came down the hall toward Van Dyke's room.
Mr Pilkington almost abandoned his trip to Rochester on receiving this devastating piece of information. "He comes on in act one in kilts!" "In kilts! At Mrs Stuyvesant van Dyke's lawn-party! On Long Island!" "It isn't Mrs Stuyvesant van Dyke any longer, either," said Freddie. "She's been changed to the wife of a pickle manufacturer." "A pickle manufacturer!" "Yes.
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