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At twenty-one he was admitted to the bar of the city of New York, although an event so perilous followed it by a year or two that the scallops of strong hair that came down over the singed place of Sara's brow whitened that year; although Mosher, who was beginning to curve slightly of the years as he walked, as if a blow had been struck him from behind, never more than heard the wind before the storm.
For days old Genendel, the ragpicker, had prophetically been showing about the village the rising knobs of his knotting rheumatic knuckles, ill omen of storm or havoc. A star had shot down one night, as white and sardonic as a Cossack's grin and almost with a hiss behind it. Mosher, returning from a peddling tour to a neighboring village, had worn a furrow between his eyes. Headache, he called it.
Whee! I didn't do a thing but surrender to a cripple that ought to be on crutches! My luck is gone!" This last was said with an air of great dejection, as though Tag never looked to have any further pleasure in life. Presently he muttered, half aloud: "And now they say that I've committed a murder! They'll prove it on me, too. Tag Mosher, you're done for."
The youngest Mosher boy crept up and balanced himself unsteadily on one foot. In his right hand he held a cucumber, and on his face shone set determination. "Wanta fight," he cried, as the combatants began the inevitable preliminary sparring. "Goin'ta fight!" The next moment, a cucumber caught Silvey squarely in the eye.
"Still, if he says I did it, oh, well, he ought to know, and I suppose it will be all right." "It'll have to be all right -whatever the courts may do to you, Mosher," Deputy Valden rejoined curtly. "Darrin, will you help the prisoner to his feet and lead him back to where the bridge was? Simmons will expect to find us there when he gets back."
"These provisions are mighty welcome," Prescott had remarked at the time, "but I'm not sure but that I would rather have Hibbert himself here -I've so much to tell him." "He'll come, in time, when he gets your letter at the Eagle House," Reade had answered, for Dick had told all his chums his suspicions regarding young Mosher.
Mosher should know that he got "lickings," of regret for the gizzard and mashed potatoes and lemon pie, of wonder as to what his mother would say when he came home in the middle of the night and told her that he had walked all the way alone. He dropped to a trot, and then to a walk, for it was hot, and even a hurt and angry boy cannot run forever.
He knew there was at least a chance that savage Tag Mosher would send the contents of one or both barrels of the gun into his back. Dick, however, had mastered the first secret of bravery, which is to conceal one's fear. Again snorting, young Mosher cocked both hammers of the shotgun, Dick heard the clicks, but still walked on. "I hate to do it!" called Tag warningly.
Eliza M. Mosher, at one time resident physician at the college, said of her: "She was quick to withdraw objections when she was convinced of error in her judgment. I well remember her opposition to the ground I took in my 'maiden speech' in faculty meeting, and how, at supper, she stood, before sitting down, to say, 'You were right this afternoon.
He had never known Tag, but, after his injury, and before brain fever came on, the farmer had described his assailant, and that description had seemed to fit Tag Mosher to a dot. The real criminal, however, a young tramp some years older than Tag, was found later on, and punished according to law.
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