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Updated: June 17, 2025
"Yes ma'am, I do. I sure do. You know there isn't a drafted man in the navy. No ma'am! We're all enlisted men." "When do you think the war will end, Mr. Kamps?" He told her, gravely. He told her many other things. He told her about Texas, at length and in detail, being a true son of that Brobdingnagian state. Your Texan born is a walking mass of statistics.
He only saw her lips moving, and could not hear, so he nodded his head, and smiled, and waved, and was gone. So Tyler Kamps had travelled up to Chicago. Whenever they passed a sizable town they had thrown open the windows and yelled, "Youp! Who-ee! Yow!" People had rushed to the streets and had stood there gazing after the train.
Certainly the way she glanced up at him from beneath her lashes was excused only by the way she scolded him if he tracked up the kitchen floor. But then, Stella Kamps and her boy were different, anyway. Marvin folks all agreed about that. Flowers on the table at meals.
His twelve-year-old vocabulary boasted such compound difficulties as mizzentopsail-yard and main-topgallantmast. He knew the intricate parts of a full-rigged ship from the mainsail to the deck, from the jib-boom to the chart-house. All this from pictures and books. It was the roving, restless spirit of his father in him, I suppose. Clint Kamps had never been meant for marriage.
Honestly, if a body didn't know Stella Kamps so well, and what a fight she had put up to earn a living for herself and the boy after that good-for-nothing Kamps up and left her, and what a housekeeper she was, and all, a person'd think well So, then, Tyler had expected to miss her first of all. The way she talked. The way she fussed around him without in the least seeming to fuss.
He walked in to see the landlord. "What are the Van Kamps paying you for those three rooms?" he asked. "Fifteen dollars," Uncle Billy informed him, smoking one of Mr. Van Kamp's good cigars and twiddling his thumbs in huge content. "I'll give you thirty for them. Just set their baggage outside and tell them the rooms are occupied." "No sir-ree!" rejoined Uncle Billy.
"Beat it!" said Moran. He tucked his arm through Tyler's, with a little impelling movement, and Tyler found himself walking up the street at a smart gait, leaving the girl staring after them. Tyler Kamps was an innocent, but he was not a fool. At what he had vaguely guessed a moment before, he now knew.
Ellsworth, and she gazed after the retreating Van Kamps with a glint in her eye that would make one understand Lucretia Borgia at last. Her son also gazed after the retreating Van Kamp. She had an exquisite figure, and she carried herself with a most delectable grace. As the party drew away from the inn she dropped behind the elders and wandered off into a side path to gather autumn leaves.
"Oh, yes you would, Nellie," replied Martha Foote, quietly, and spooned up the thin amber gravy. "Oh, yes you would." Tyler Kamps was a tired boy. He was tired from his left great toe to that topmost spot at the crown of his head where six unruly hairs always persisted in sticking straight out in defiance of patient brushing, wetting, and greasing.
Miss Hall and the two girls stood before them, cool, smiling, unruffled. "Miss Cunningham, this is Mr. Tyler Kamps. Mr. Moran, Miss Cunningham. Miss Drew Mr. Moran, Mr. Kamps." The boy and the man gulped, bowed, mumbled something. "Would you like to dance?" said Miss Cunningham, and raised limpid eyes to Tyler's. "Why I you see I don't know how. I just started to "
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