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Updated: May 5, 2025
I-I'm h-hit!! I-I-I'm h-h-hit!!!" Then they would burst forth with a song written by William Whalen in commemoration of the exploits of the doughty sheriff, a song which since has become a favorite of the migratory workers as they travel from job to job, and which will serve to keep the deeds of McRae fresh in the minds of the workers for many years to come. TO SHERIFF McRAE
And yet she had the queer effect of making him want to cry again. That wouldn't do. She wouldn't respect him if he cried. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets and knitted his fair brows into a fearful Stonehouse scowl. "Oh, it's nothing. I've had a row at home. That's all. My father's new wife h-hit me and I b-bit her. Jolly hard. And then I fell downstairs." "Why did she hit you?"
After we get those b-birds outa the blackberry bushes, time enough then for you to h-hit the back trail." "No, I promised." There was in Bob's face a look Blister had never seen there before, something hard and dogged and implacable. "My notion is for half a dozen of us to go on horses swing round by the far edge of the mesa. We can drop down into the valley an' pick Houck up if we're lucky."
Sounded as if he were shingling a roof, and that's work, you know, which must be done in fair weather. It might rain and spoil the plastering. 'Thank you, Jerrie answered, curtly. 'Harold is shingling a roof, and cannot come. But where is Maude? Is she shingling a roof, too? 'Yes, b-b-by Jove. You've h-hit it.
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