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"Wah wah wah wo hoo yow wow rrrrrr-rrrr-rrrr" and the other ravens joined in. Rolf had no weapons but his bow, his pocket knife, and a hatchet. He took the latter in his hand and walked gently forward; the hollow-voiced ravens "haw hawed," then flew to safe perches where they chuckled like ghouls over some extra-ghoulish joke.

"Here, my good fellow," he said, thrusting the money into the man's hands, "take that, what's your name?" "Jim Davis," came the answer, hollow-voiced. "Well, Jim, I thank you. I've always liked your people. If you ever want a job, call on me." And they were gone. The crowd poured up and out of the elevators, talking and whispering. "Who was it?" "Are they alive?" "How many?" "Two!"

Before the rumbling echoes had died away a hollow-voiced owl began to hoot in philosophical tranquillity from near the edge of the new talus as if nothing extraordinary had occurred, although, perhaps, he was curious to know what all the noise was about. His "hoot-too-hoot-too-whoo" might have meant, "what's a' the steer, kimmer?" It was long before the Valley found perfect rest.

"Ever since you did take the turn two days ago, you've laid there so quiet an' peaceful no more dreams an' ravin' you've jest laid there 'wrapped in infant slumbers pure an' light', Mr. Geoffrey Ravenslee, I mean." "Why then, it's about time I got up. If you'll kindly er retire and send Patterson, I'll get dressed." "Dressed?" echoed Mrs. Trapes, hollow-voiced and grim. "Get up? Lord, Mr.