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Updated: May 5, 2025
There was contemptuous pity in the outsider's look as it dwelt a moment upon me before he replied: "The man was myself." And then he condescended to borrow a quarter from me. Tommy McGuffy was growing old. The skin of his attenuated face was so shrunk and so stretched from wrinkle to wrinkle that it seemed narrowly to escape breaking.
As to schooling, I've known some mighty good men who never punched the eyes out of the owl in their old McGuffy spelling-book." A distant cry of dinner was wafted up the creek. "That's a welcome call," said Priest, arising. "Come on, everybody. My cook has orders to tear his shirt in getting up a big dinner." A short walk led to the camp.
"Here," said the monument, in deep-cut-letters, but bad English, "lies all that remains of Thomas McGuffy, born in Rearward, November 11, 1820; died . Gone whither the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest." This supplementary information was framed in the words of Tommy's favourite passage in his favourite hymn. His liking for this was mainly on account of its tune.
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