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Updated: June 22, 2025
Moving stiffly, he turned it so that Hemingway could see. On it Hemingway read, "George S. Sheyer," and, on a lower line, "Representing William L. Pinkerton." To the woman he loved the calamity they dreaded had come, and Hemingway, with a groan of dismay, exclaimed aloud: "It is the end!" From the darkness of the outer office a man stepped softly into the circle of the lamp.
"Stop!" roared Dick, his face reddening. He advanced, his fists clenched. "If you're going to say anything against my father or mother, Bert Dodge, then stop before you say it! Before I break your neck!" "Stop, both of you," interjected Hemingway, springing between the white-faced High School boys. "No blows are going to be struck while members of the police department are around.
Hemingway, musingly, as if she were speaking to herself. "They don't come any prettier than they come in Riverton," Peter parried. "And you're to remember I'm coming over here to work." "I'll remember," said she, smiling. "But all the same, I mean you to go about it the right way. I'm going to introduce you to some very delightful people, Peter."
Going to be an artist, was he? Well, thank God, he didn't look as if he were afflicted with the artistic temperament; he looked as if he were capable of hard work, and plenty of it. People liked to say that John Hemingway was a fine example of the American become a cosmopolitan. As a matter of fact, Hemingway wasn't.
After having been several times severely snubbed in this fashion, Hemingway remarked grimly as he put a black pearl back into his pocket: "At this rate sister will be mighty glad to see me when I get home. It seems almost a pity I haven't got a sister." The girl answered this only with a grave smile.
The bravest man might well shrink from attempting to scale the perpendicular sides of this mass of rock, but as young Hemingway gazed longingly up the side to the nest, he noticed that the stone had become coated, in the course of time, with earth, which was covered with tangled vines and stunted vegetation.
"Took an impression of the lock, then, and made a key, did you?" "Right-o," drawled Tip. "I'll look into your lodgings," muttered Hemingway. "Probably I'll find you've got a good outfit for that kind of work. I remember you used to work for a locksmith." Tip, however, was not scared. He knew that there was nothing at his lodgings to betray him.
He was as gentle, as considerate, and even more exquisitely sympathetic than of old. But in all things that concerned himself, he was quietly disinterested. She and Hemingway had several long talks. Then Hemingway began to get busy.
But I set out to tell you a true incident of what happened a few years since, to a bright, lively youngster, sixteen years old, who lives in New Braunfels, and is brimful of pluck. His name is Lee Hemingway; he is an orphan, and if his life is spared, he is certain to be heard from when he reaches man's estate. Prof.
At last Hemingway gave up the attempt to learn the name of the party with whom Tip had been talking in Stetson's Alley on this night. Then Tip was led away to a cell. "Come on, fellows," muttered Dick to his chums.
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