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Updated: June 24, 2025
FOMÍNISHNA. You see Samsón Sílych has come, and seems to be tipsy. TISHKA. Phew! We're goners! FOMÍNISHNA. Run for Lázar, Tishka; there's a dear; run quick! FOMÍNISHNA. This way, I guess, my dear! Ah, I'll close the doors, good heavens, I'll close them; let him go up-stairs, but you stay here, my dear. A knock at the door, and the voice of SAMSÓN SÍLYCH: "Hey! open up; who's there?"
And none of us knows what an American is. I'll admit it was your type founded the government. But you are goners. There is no American type any more. And by and by we'll modify your old Anglo-Saxon institutions so that G. Washington will simply revolve in his grave. We'll add Greek ideas and Yiddish and Wop and Bohunk and Armenian and Nigger and Chinese and Magyar. Gee!
"If on our return I fail to take these three hairs to the Crooked Magician, the other things I have come to seek will be of no use at all, and we cannot restore Unc Nunkie and Margolotte to life." "They're goners, I guess," said the Patchwork Girl. "Never mind," added the cat. "I can't see that old Unc and Margolotte are worth all this trouble, anyhow." But Ojo did not feel that way.
"What is it?" "It's devil-fire. Oh, Tom, this is awful." Some vague figures approached through the gloom, swinging an old-fashioned tin lantern that freckled the ground with innumerable little spangles of light. Presently Huckleberry whispered with a shudder: "It's the devils sure enough. Three of 'em! Lordy, Tom, we're goners! Can you pray?" "I'll try, but don't you be afeard.
"Did you see that swoop!" "Did I? I thought they were goners sure." "They handle that sky-clipper like a bicycle."
I thought we were goners, for when a bull comes down on anything with his forefeet, it's done for. But he slowly settled back, perhaps doubtful. Then, as another buffalo came to the edge of the bank, luckily a little way from us, the bull turned broadside, presenting a splendid target. Then I whispered to Williams: 'Now's your chance. Shoot! I waited for the shot, but none came.
Harding during a temporary lull in the hostilities, "and then we're goners, unless the boys come back from across the river in time." "Couldn't we get away after dark?" asked the Easterner. "It's our only hope if help don't reach us," replied Bridge.
She so wanted to believe that Dick was right. It was what she herself had thought. "I wish you'd seen him the day he pulled Siegfried out of Lost Creek. Tell you, I thought they were both goners," Dick continued. "I expect it was most ankle-deep," she scoffed. "Hello, we're past Bald Knob!" "They both came mighty nigh handing in their checks."
"We're goners sure," gasped Billy as the creatures hesitated before another scattering discharge of bullets, but still advanced, despite the fact that this time two were killed. Suddenly, however, their leader with a strange cry threw his head upward and seemed to sniff at the air as if in apprehension.
There were dry batteries, and primary batteries, and many odds and ends, which made Jack almost sorry he was leaving the place. Heavy steps, muffled by the thickness of the door, sounded along the outer passage. "Ready?" whispered Jack. "Here they come. Remember if you miss your first blow, we're goners, you and I."
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