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Updated: June 28, 2025
I can't help it, I I get crazy with worry." A sudden, almost a simian old-age seemed to roll, like a cloud that can thunder, across Sara's face. She was suddenly very small and no little old. Veins came out on her brow and upon the backs of her hands, and Mosher, depressed with an unconscious awareness, was looking into the tired, cold, watery eyes of the fleet woman who had been his.
"I don't say he Nicky I don't say he should always stay home evenings when Ada comes over sometimes with Leo and Irma, but night after night three times whole nights I Mosher, I'm afraid." In his utter well-being from her warming food, Mosher drank deeply and, if it must be admitted, swishingly, through his mustache, inhaling copiously the draughts of Sara's coffee.
Instead, I still contend that I feel a sneaking liking for poor Tag." "'Poor Tag, indeed!" mimicked Tom Reade. "Poor wives and kids of the deputy sheriffs whom Tag may shoot down in their tracks before he's cornered at last! Dick, young Mosher is a budding outlaw and a bad egg all around." "No decent citizen should feel any sort of sympathy for him," affirmed Harry Hazelton.
"And guess who offers the reward?" "Who?" "Your father!" "Bill Mosher?" laughed Tag, despite his sulky air. "What does Bill offer? The next dozen of eggs?" "Tag, Bill Mosher isn't your father, and he has admitted it. You were a strange child that came into his care, and he kept you, at first, hoping for a reward. I'll call him." "You may as well," agreed Tag sullenly.
Down they went, rolling over and over, fighting like wild cats until Mosher secured the upper hand and sat heavily on the high school boy. "I gave you all the chance I could," growled Mosher, planting blow after blow on Dick's head, face and chest, "and you wouldn't help yourself anyway. Now, you'll take all your medicine, and next time you meet me you'll know enough to leave me alone."
"I'd stay and laugh a while at that, but I've other business for to-day." "No; your real father, Mr. Dick cried after him, as Tag started away. "Bill Mosher found you in a railroad wreck. Your real father is a man of wealth. He is nearly broken down from the many anxieties of trying to find you. He spent last night at our camp. This morning he and friends of his started off to find you.
There are Franklin, Hampshire, Essex, Suffolk, and Hampden streets, alternated with Jackson, Sargeant, Cabot, Appleton, Dwight and Lyman, named for noted cotton manufacturing firms. Main street is a long thoroughfare extending north and south and terminating at the river. Canal, Race, and Bridge streets were named from their location. Bowers, Mosher and Ely from former landowners of Depot Hill.
"We can catch him -if we can run fast enough," declared Dick, for just then the fugitive darted ahead with renewed speed. "Unless he stops us with the gun," objected Dave. "Don't let him stop you with that. I don't believe he would dare use it on us." "If it's only a question of 'daring," responded Dave, "I don't believe there is anything that Tag Mosher would be afraid to do at a pinch."
Glad to have seen you again." The cat-footed deputy was soon lost to sight among the trees. Dave was the first to speak, and that was some moments later. "Dick, you're foolish to feel any liking for Tag Mosher. He's bad all the way through.
"If he is your son, sir," Dick went on solemnly, and hating his task, "I am much afraid that you are going to be disappointed in him. The boy is known as Tag Mosher. He believes a dissolute, drunken, thieving fellow named Bill Mosher, who is now in jail, to be his father. Tag is himself a wild young savage of the forest, and maintains himself by st -poaching."
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