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Updated: May 3, 2025
He began the hunt, next morning. Pacing gravely along the center of the road, he headed toward the mile-distant village. By sheer luck, such few automobiles as chanced along, at that hour, were driven by folk who had heart enough to slow down or to turn aside for the majestically strolling old dog.
"That's remarkably like a bullet, lad," he said reflectively. "And it's a long shot Big Alec's making." "And he's using smokeless powder," he concluded, after an examination of the mile-distant shore. "That's why we can't hear the report." I looked at the shore, but could see no sign of Big Alec, who was undoubtedly hidden in some rocky nook with us at his mercy.
It was when Lad was eighteen months old that the mad-dog scare swept Hampton village; and reached its crawly tentacles out across the lake to the mile-distant Place. Down the village street, one day, trotted an enormous black mongrel; full in the center of the roadway. The mongrel's heavy head was low, and lolled from side to side with each lurching stride of the big body. The eyes were bloodshot.
The youngster wore but a single garment, a shapeless calico dress that fell scarcely to her knees. She was Sonya, the seven-year-old daughter of one of the Place's extra workmen, a Slav named Ruloff who lived in the mile-distant village, across the lake. Ruloff, following the custom of his peasant ancestors, put his whole family to work, from the time its members were old enough to toddle.
"That's remarkably like a bullet, lad," he said reflectively. "And it's a long shot Big Alec's making." "And he's using smokeless powder," he concluded, after an examination of the mile-distant shore. "That's why we can't hear the report." I looked at the shore, but could see no sign of Big Alec, who was undoubtedly hidden in some rocky nook with us at his mercy.
Uncle Joe Tubbs and Mrs. Tubbs were driving up, in a country buggy. Father and Mother filled their nostrils with the smell of the salt marshes, their ears with the long murmur of the mile-distant surf, their eyes with the shine of the great dunes and the demure peace of a New England white cottage standing among firs and apple-trees scent and sound and sight of their freedom.
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