Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: May 7, 2025
But Miss Macomber went out attended by no such kind companion. She resolved on a missionary life, without the offer of marriage being connected with it. No husband helped her decide the momentous question; and when she resolved, it was to go alone.
"I was getting some flowers for the table, dearie," she added to the girl. Joe wondered vaguely at the contrast. Here was another of nature's paradoxes. Mrs. Macomber looked worn and quite untidy. She was fat; her figure looked as though it had been allowed to run wild. Her face was heavily lined with wrinkles and was not too clean. And her eyes were tired.
Macomber and Blinn, with a rider and a Navajo, were up there as the official starters of the day. Bostil's eyes glistened. He put a friendly hand on Cordts's shoulder, an action which showed the stress of the moment. Most of the men crowded around Bostil. Sears and Hutchinson hung close to Cordts. And Holley, keeping near his employer, had keen eyes for other things than horses.
"Wal, we're all good fellers to-day," interposed Bostil. "An' now let's ride home an' eat. Slone, you come with me." The group slowly mounted the slope where the horses waited. Macomber, Wetherby, Burthwait, Blinn all Bostil's friends proffered their felicitations to the young rider, and all were evidently prepossessed with him.
There was nothing more he could add. And Mr. Macomber, raising his eyes, looked at him frankly. "Seen you before, ain't I? Used to be at Bromley's?" "Yes." "I'm foreman there. Cultivator room." And Joe remembered. It did not exactly add to his satisfaction. "Sure you are," and he tried to make his voice heartily friendly. They walked slowly back toward the house.
She had on an untidy apron and her hair was squeezed back from her yellow, greasy face. "Well?" she said. "I've er Miss Myrtle?" sparkled Joe, conquering the vapours. "Not in," said Mrs. Macomber shortly. Joe fell back a step. The shadows swept down upon him. For a moment he was at a loss for words. "But Mrs. Macomber we were going to Stony Point this afternoon!"
"Van, there's a hoss!" exclaimed one. "No, he ain't," replied Van. And that diverse judgment appeared to be characteristic throughout. The strange thing was that Macomber, the rancher, had already traded his mustang and money to boot for the sorrel. The deal, whether wise or not, had been consummated. Brackton came out with Red Wilson, and they had to have their say.
After many minutes it may have been two he stepped to the edge of the porch and speculated on going around to the back, when the door flew suddenly open and Mrs. Macomber stood peering at him through the screen. He jerked off his hat. "How do you do?" and gave her a radiant smile. Mrs. Macomber scowled. She was an impregnable griffin even in still life.
A boy of twelve years old, as I was then, would not have stood a chance in that roaring torrent. A terrible accident happened here a few years afterwards. A party went from the house, where I always stayed, to fish at Macomber Falls. There were four ladies and two men.
I found that about every woman under fifty in our town is sure she was born for this here picture work, from Henrietta Templeton Price to Beryl Mae Macomber, who's expecting any day to be snapped up by some shrewd manager that her type is bound to appeal to, she being a fair young thing with big eyes and lots of teeth, like all film actresses.
Word Of The Day
Others Looking