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Updated: October 31, 2024


In the Hills there was no surer way to find trouble than to strike the horse of the cattle-drover. I have seen an indolent blacksmith booted across his shop because he kicked a horse on the leg to make him hold his foot up. And I have seen a lout's head broken because the master caught him swearing at a horse. As we rode, the day opened, and leaf and grass blade glistened with the melting frost.

And never is he thrice armed unless his quarrel is just. Laz came back to the window and spoke and the old man started and looked toward him. "Jasper, I have hearn that Lije Peters is about to be app'inted deputy marshal." "Yes, Laz, that's the news a stirrin'." Behind the lout's countenance a light was gradually turned up.

Waste no time after he's missed." But although young Bourne scored no end in the next few rounds by following Acton's advice, his good efforts seemed wasted. The lout's face was as hard as a butcher's block. Acton saw that Bourne was visibly tiring, and that it was an almost foregone conclusion that in the end he would be beaten. He could hardly stall off the fellow's attack.

My handkerchief lay on the path; I had dropped it on purpose. I turned round now and picked it up, said thank you, and walked on. "You're very quick to notice things of no account," says the engineer. "A lout's red-spotted rag.... Come, let's go and sit in the summer-house." "It's shut up at night," says Fruen. "I dare say there's somebody in there." After that I heard no more.

A bloated carcass of a dog lay lolled on bladderwrack. Before him the gunwale of a boat, sunk in sand. Un coche ensablé Louis Veuillot called Gautier's prose. These heavy sands are language tide and wind have silted here. And these, the stoneheaps of dead builders, a warren of weasel rats. Hide gold there. Try it. You have some. Sands and stones. Heavy of the past. Sir Lout's toys.

Bourne's "point" had the usual effect; the lout's head swam, he felt sick and sorry, and could not even ward off Jack's blows. He backed, Jack scoring like mad all the time, and when Acton finally called "time!" he dropped on to the ground blubbing. The fellow's eye was visibly swelling, his lips were cut, and his nose bled villainously. "The pig bleeds," said Acton, cheerfully.

Matcham coloured to his neck and winced; and Dick, with an angry countenance, put his hand on the lout's shoulder. "How now, churl!" he cried. "Fall to thy business, and leave mocking thy betters." Hugh Ferryman grumblingly undid his boat, and shoved it a little forth into the deep water. Then Dick led in the horse, and Matcham followed.

"And it was human," I went on, pulling myself together, ashamed of having so nearly gone to pieces. "Of course it was human! The whole affair is plain enough. Not a drunken brawl, as Durand thinks; it was a drunken lout's practical joke, for which he has suffered. I suppose I must have filled him pretty full of bullets, and he has crawled away to die in Kerselec forest.

He then complained that I had put in too much butter, and said, jokingly, that if it were spilt he would not be responsible for the loss. As soon as I saw the Bible in the lout's arms I was certain of success, as he could not see the ends of the pike without twisting his head, and I saw no reason why he should divert his gaze from the plate, which he had enough to do to carry evenly.

"You must excuse me," said the boy, torn between Reginald on the one hand and the fear of offending Durfy on the other. The latter began to take in the position of affairs, and his temper evaporated accordingly. "I won't excuse you; that's all about it," he said; "let go that snivelling lout's arm and do what you're told.

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