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Updated: July 22, 2025
So that the fact seems to have been, William, finding this tract in a barren state and yielding but little profit, and being strongly attached to the pleasures of the chase, converted it into a royal forest, without being guilty of those violences to the inhabitants of which Henry of Huntingdon, Malmesbury, Walter Mapes, and others complain."
"Seems to be a mighty populous river up this way, hey, Mapes?" he remarked genially. "Castaways round every bend." "What do you mean? Have you picked up others?" "Certainly have. Hit a keel-boat twenty miles below." "A keel-boat, operated by steam?" "Couldn't say as to that. Was it, Mapes? The craft had gone down when I got on deck.
"That's just what he said. Damn this being under military orders. We've got to nose our way up Rock River, with a lot of those measly soldiers aboard. It's simply hell. Here you, Mapes, stop that unloading, and get steam up we've got to put in a night of it." "But," insisted Kirby in disgust, "I'm not going up there; aren't there any boats going down?" "How the hell should I know?
That gets a quick rise out of the former Myrtle Mapes, now Mrs. Zosco. "Why why," says she, "my brother Ellery does." "That's so," put in Zosco. "Where is the youngster?" "Ellery?" says Myrtle, givin' him that innocent baby-doll look. "Oh, he must be in his room. I I will look." "Never mind," says I. "Probably he is. It doesn't matter. Visiting here, too, eh? How long? About two weeks.
The sea must have gone down; waves no longer dashed against the side, and there was no shriek of wind overhead; the yacht rocked gently, as though the swell of the sea no longer buffeted her; there was no sound of action on the deck above. Then he heard a voice again, outside, reaching him this time plainly through the open port. "All set, Mapes," it said sharply. "Come on down.
My friend, there aren't ten families within a hundred miles of that place." Mapes laughed, his mouth opening like a red gash, exhibiting a row of yellow fangs. "No, I reckon not; but thar's a hell ov a lot o' fellers thar whut ain't families, but kin eat. Didn't yer know, pardner, thar's a right smart war on? thet the Illinoy militia is called out, an' is a marchin' now fer Yeller Banks?
The unwashed gang simply helped themselves, and then retired to any convenient spot where they chose to eat. I discovered a fairly comfortable seat on a cracker box, and was still busily munching away on the coarse, poorly-cooked food, when Mapes, prowling about, chanced to spy me among the shadows. "Hullo; is that you, Steve?" he asked, gruffly.
He was not suspicious of me, however, and lingered on in his seat beside the rail, expectorating into the running water below, until Mapes suddenly appeared on deck, and compelled me to resume work. The two disappeared together, seeking a friendly drink at the bar, leaving me alone, and industriously employed in brightening up the front of the cabin.
A Columbia man who is always on hand for the big games of the year is Charles Halstead Mapes, the ever reliable, loyal rooter for the game. He has told the tale of this victory so wonderfully well that football enthusiasts cannot but enjoy this enthusiastic Columbia version. "Fifteen years ago Yale was supreme in football," runs Mapes' story.
Even while he utters his cynical wisdom in an indescribably droll voice, he makes you feel that his heart is a tender Iliad of human sympathy. There are a host of other interesting people I met in New York: Mrs. Mary Mapes Dodge, the beloved editor of St. Nicholas, and Mrs.
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