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Updated: June 4, 2025
At the close, he disappeared. I suppose he did not dare trust himself to join in the congratulations with which she was overwhelmed. I found him, as I rather expected, on the bench where he had sat when Mayme McCartney first found him. And when the crowd had departed from the studio, I told the girl. Without even stopping to put on her hat she went out to him.
As Mayme McCartney observed that smile with the shrewd judgment of men which comes early, in self-protection, to girls of her environment, the suspicion and impudence died out of her face, which became wistful. "D'you think it means anything?" she asked. "Any cough means something. I couldn't tell without examination." "How much?" inquired the cautious Mayme.
But even that grim and judicial God of his worship ought to welcome him into heaven on the strength of it. I believe that Bartholomew sleeps o' nights now. Mayme Mccartney was a bad little good girl.
However, she won't have much chance. He's off to-morrow." "Will he write?" said Mayme in a curious, strained voice. "He will. He'll report to me from time to time." "Didn't he wasn't there any message?" "Just good-bye and good luck," answered the Little Red Doctor, censoring ruthlessly. The Bonnie Lassie went over and put her arms around Mayme McCartney. "My dear," she said softly.
McCartney, with his gangs, was blocking up the ends of the three doubtful spans. but boats adrift, if the flood chanced to be a high one, might endanger the girders; and there was a very fleet in the shrunken channel. "Get them behind the swell of the guard tower," he shouted down to Peroo. "It will be dead-water there. Get them below the bridge." "Heh! Listen to the Chota Sahib.
"My dear," I murmured, "I hope it isn't going to be too hard." "He's so pretty," said Mayme McCartney wistfully. So he was, now that I came to think of it. With his clear, dark color, his wavy hair, his languishing brown eyes, his almost girlishly graceful figure, and his beautiful clothes, he was pretty enough to fascinate any inexperienced imagination.
"The Little Red Doctor," remarked David after an interlude, in the shaken tone of one who has had undeserved miracles thrust upon him, "said that to want something more than anything in the world and not get it was good for my soul, besides serving me right." "The Little Red Doctor," retorted Mary McCartney, with the reckless ingratitude of a woman in love, "is a dear little red idiot.
The Little Red Doctor fell suddenly grave. "She's another matter," he said. "I don't think I shall." Matters were going forward with Mayme beg her pardon, Mary McCartney, too. "Better and more of it," she wrote the Bonnie Lassie. "They rang me in on one of their local Red Cross shows to do a monologue. Was I a hit? Say, I got more flowers than a hearse!
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