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Updated: June 11, 2025
"The old people were camped long, long ago, near the Oolastook, where now stands St. John. All this lan' Indian then. No 'hite man live here that time, and the hunter always find game plenty plenty moose, plenty bear, plenty fish, plenty everyting. "Then Indians not so wicked as now, and God had not sent 'hite men to punish them for their sins.
This obstruction in the river accounts for the water in high floods riseing to Such a hite at the last falls.
So, Hite, then a colonel in the Continental army, applied for and received from the State of Virginia this same land he had purchased under the old Henderson grant, and sixty acres adjoining. His title, therefore, was made doubly secure, and he seems to have been little troubled, as so many others were, by rival claimants.
Hite looked from the bit of thread to the fine features of the man; he looked at the two young men who grinned at him. He said: "All right, Professor, I'll bite. What is this?" "Would you say, Mr. Hite, that this bit of thread belongs inside a properly constructed telephone box?"
For his sake, lest suspicion befall him, she had sought to inaugurate an investigation nay, a persecution of this man, and he a stranger; and but that circumstance was kind to him, her effort might have resulted cruelly. And now that she had done so much for Con Hite, it was her pleasure to take it out on him, as the phrase goes.
Sneed's critter bein' gone too mought make folks lay it ter ye fur sure," persisted Hite. "I ain't seen Mr. Sneed's horse. Mr. Sneed ye wouldn't b'lieve it ter look at him, but he's a ransomed saint! ha! ha! The money fur him will be fotched hyar ter yer still. I sent fur it ter kem by Jake Glenn; he knows ye, an' ye know him." Con Hite's open brow did not cloud.
He called up Professor Brierly. Jack, who answered the phone, assured him that everything was peaceful there also. He called up the office again. This time he was connected directly with the city room. When he identified himself his eardrums were almost shattered by the howl that came over the wire: "Flynn was murdered an hour ago!" Hite yelled.
July Fourth of that year falling on a Friday, he had decided to start his vacation, nominally, on the following Monday, July 7, actually, on the morning of July second. He argued logically that it might take several of his vacation days to clean up the story. Hite not offering any objections to this, Jimmy started shortly after midnight, Wednesday morning. The fates were unkind to him.
"Oh, all right, all right, I suppose I'll have to go. What's it all about?" "No, you don't have to go. This is your vacation. This paper," virtuously, "doesn't impose on its men. I wouldn't dream of " "All right, chief, all right, I'll go. I don't have to go. But I'm just aching, just yearning to go. What is it?" Hite glowered at him for a moment. His joke wasn't working out quite as planned.
Hite proudly quoted a poem written by Cy Warman about the theme of the Indian's regard for his white friend. Warman had followed the crowd in to this spot at the time of the boom, looking for local colour human local colour, not the glitter in the sands. It was at John Hite's home where Warman had composed the one time popular song, "Sweet Marie."
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