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Updated: May 3, 2025
"Now, father, you stop doing so," said Ellen. "You can get work somewhere; you are not old. Call yourself old! It is nonsense. Are you going to give in and be old because two men tell you that you are? What if your hair is gray! Ever so many young men have gray hair. You are not old, and you can get work somewhere. McGuire's and Lloyd's are not the only factories in the country."
As she spoke she looked anxiously through the window toward her own door. "Mr. McGuire's with him, now, so I got away." "But there's Bess an' Harry," began Susan, "We don't leave him with the children, ever," interposed Mrs. McGuire, with another hurried glance through the window. "We don't dare to. You see, once we found we found him with his father's old pistol. Oh, Susan, it it was awful!"
It was the summer of 1914, and the never-to-be-forgotten August had come and passed, firing the match that was destined to set the whole world ablaze. Mrs. McGuire's eldest son John of whom she boasted in season and out and whom she loved with an all-absorbing passion had caught the war-fever, gone to Canada, and enlisted. Mrs.
A boy was bringing up an extra pony, bridled and saddled, to the gate. Raidler walked to McGuire's room and threw open the door. McGuire was lying on his cot, not yet dressed, smoking. "Get up," said the cattleman, and his voice was clear and brassy, like a bugle. "How's that?" asked McGuire, a little startled. "Get up and dress. I can stand a rattlesnake, but I hate a liar.
"Worry never climbed a hill, Worry never There's some times when it's frank impertinence to tell folks not to worry," she muttered severely to herself, attacking the piled-up dishes before her. Daniel Burton went to work in McGuire's grocery store the next morning, after a particularly appetizing breakfast served to him by a silent, red-eyed, but very attentive Susan.
They were too good to keep to ourselves, John, so I jotted them down as you told them, and last week I sent them off to a publisher." "A a real publisher?" The boy's voice shook. Every trace of color had drained from his face. "You bet your life and one of the biggest in the country." Daniel Burton's own voice was shaking. He had turned his eyes away from John McGuire's face.
Anything you think of you want, the boys'll ride up and fetch it down for you." It was Chad Murchison, a cow-puncher from the Circle Bar outfit, who first suggested that McGuire's illness was fraudulent. Chad had brought a basket of grapes for him thirty miles, and four out of his way, tied to his saddle-horn.
McGuire laughed lightly. "No. That's the one thing I leave off the first possible minute. Some way, I feel as if I was helpin' along the spring." "Humph! Well, I should help along somethin' 'sides spring, I guess, if I did it. Besides, it strikes me rubbers ain't the only thing you're leavin' off." Susan's disapproving eyes had swept now to Mrs. McGuire's unprotected head and shoulders.
He seemed to enjoy Stub McGuire's horror. "'Ere, 'ere," said McGuire, "off this job you go if you don't know better than to insult people that way. You'll be gettin' me inter mischiff." "Not at all," said Nickie, "not at all. Surely a man may offer ordinary civilities to his friends. Bless my soul, you wouldn't have me cut old Billy in the streets, would you?
Then there was McLaughlin, the watchman of Lloyd's, and the two watchmen from Briggs's and McGuire's came pelting down their stairs, swinging their lanterns. They all stood around the wounded man and Ellen, and stared for a second. They were half stupefied. "My God! this is a bad job," said Dixon. "Go for a doctor," cried Ellen, hoarsely. "We're a pack of fools," ejaculated Sargent, suddenly.
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