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Updated: June 3, 2025
First is Garfield Boone, known to his chums as Garry. He is the accepted and chosen leader of the trio on all their expeditions. Garry's father, known to the backwoodsmen as "Moose" Boone, is a wealthy lumberman. Next is Phil Durant, a dark-haired youth of French descent. He is able to talk French fluently, but keeps this knowledge under cover, as the boys once found it useful for him to do.
Sometimes it skips a generation some times two but generally we are wearing the old gentleman's suit of clothes cut down to fit our small bodies, making believe all the time that they are our very own, unconscious of the discerning eyes who recognize their cut and origin. Nothing tangible, it is safe to say, came with Garry's share of the estate and he got it all.
"Well, that's a little better," returned the doctor, moving the apparently lifeless arm aside and placing his ear close to the patient's breast. For a moment he listened intently, then he drew up a chair and sat down beside him, his fingers on Garry's pulse. "You don't think he's in danger, do you, doctor?" asked Jack in an anxious tone. "No he'll pull through.
Major Flinders watched it till it was out of sight, and, at first, experienced a feeling of despair at being thus deprived of the aid of Garry's boldness and promptitude, and left to his own resources.
"Come! of course I'll come, Corinne, now, this minute, if he's home, or to-night, or any time you say. Suppose I go back with you and wait. Garry's working too hard, that's it, he was always that way, puts his whole soul into anything he gets interested in and never lets up until it's accomplished." He waited for some reply, but she was still toying with the handle of her parasol.
"I've already been disinherited," explained Brian dryly. "Twice. And I'm leaving tonight for good." Garry sat up. "You mean?" demanded Kenny coldly. "I mean," flung out Brian, "that I'm tired of it all. I'm sick to death of painting sunsets." Garry's startled glance sought and found a mediocre sunset on an easel. Brian went in for sunsets.
And throughout the whole morning Steve was conscious of it whenever they met after skirting a swamp, or slipped noiselessly over a hardwood knoll, to rejoin each other. The day was half gone before Steve realized that it was the telltale sign of a brain no longer sober, even though Garry's body continued to maintain an incredible steadiness.
Garry's merry laugh and good-natured ridicule had helped, so had the discovery that none of his friends had had anything to do with Gilbert's fall. After all, he said to himself, as he strode up the street beside his friend, it was "none of his funeral," none of his business, really. Such things went on every day and in every part of the world. Neither was it his Uncle Arthur's.
Just the kind who's killed what used to be a demand for decent men." And then, outside in the dark, Stephen O'Mara forgot how sick the other man had been. He was across the threshold in a single stride, and Fat Joe came lightly to his feet as he saw his chief's set face that night. It wiped, the smile from Garry's lips, too.
Good-night, old man, give my love to Ruth," and he followed his wife out of the room. Jack waited until the two had turned to mount the stairs, caught a significant flash from Garry's dark eyes as a further reminder of his silence, and, opening the front door, closed it softly behind him. Ruth was waiting for him.
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