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Updated: June 9, 2025
"He's wit' himself, as a master-mechanic shu'd be," said Callahan. "So's M'Tosh. But nayther wan n'r t'other av thim'll take a thrain out whin the strike's on. They're both Loring min." At the mention of Loring's name Griggs looked up from the stick he was whittling. "No prospects o' the Boston folks getting the road back again, I reckon," he remarked tentatively.
This morning he was finer than ever before. It was awful. "You'll see," mourned Johnnie, his eyes on the clock as he talked. "He'll be awful mean t' me. Here he says I can't listen t' scoutin' no more! N'r nothin'! Say, Mister Perkins, if he shoves at me, would y' ever give him biscuits and gravy again?" Mr. Perkins thought it over.
"Mis' Haskins, set right up to the table an' take a good swig o tea whilst I make y' s'm toast. It's green tea, an' it's good. I tell Council as I git older I don't seem to enjoy Young Hyson n'r Gunpowder. I want the reel green tea, jest as it comes off'n the vines. Seems t' have more heart in it, some way. Don't s'pose it has. Council says it's all in m' eye."
We can't afford to be tolled off the track by a bag of anise seed. Who is the man makin' this motion? Does anybody know him? I do. He's a spy. He's sent here f'r a purpose. Suppose he'd nominated a better man? His motion would have been out of place. His nomination of Jim McGann was a trick. Jim McGann can't git a pound o' sugar on credit in his own town. He never had any credit n'r influence.
I asked, scenting a possible source of information. "They own the ground on t' other side of ye, and ever'body allowed they owned this." "But their vein runs the other way southeast and northwest," Gifford interposed. The old man winked his single eye. "Ever been in their workin's?" Gifford shook his head. "N'r nobody else that could 'r would talk," said our ancient.
And he scratched his head with the scratch-awl. "It's a'most done now. Ther ain't much more to do. We've pretty much finished up. Ther's the doors to hang and trim, 'n' the closet shelves 'n' things to fix up; the stairs ain't quite done, n'r the front steps.
Johnnie raised on his toes to whisper: "For you not t' tell Mister Perkins n'r anybody else when I sneak up on the roofs of nights." "You wouldn't lean over the edge, Johnnie, and go all dizzy, and fall?" the brush was a sore temptation. Johnnie belittled her fears. "Couldn't I jus' as easy fall out of our window?" he demanded. The bargain was struck; the brush changed hands.
"Eh!" exclaimed the miner, glancing round, startled and timid, like a child. "He had," exclaimed Mrs. Morel, "if he didn't hurtle himself up as if he was trying to get in the smallest space he could." "Me!" exclaimed Morel "me a good figure! I wor niver much more n'r a skeleton." "Man!" cried his wife, "don't be such a pulamiter!" "'Strewth!" he said.
"All right; this is the man. Haskins, this is Mr. Butler no relation to Ben the hardest-working man in Cedar County." On the way home Haskins said: "I ain't much better off. I'd like that farm; it's a good farm, but it's all run down, an' so 'm I. I could make a good farm of it if I had half a show. But I can't stock it n'r seed it." "Waal, now, don't you worry," roared Council in his ear.
It ain't no use, Drifting Crane; it's got to be. You an' I can't help n'r hinder it. I know just how you feel about it, but I tell yeh it ain't no use to fight." Drifting Crane turned his head and gazed out on the western sky, still red with the light of the fallen sun. His face was rigid as bronze, but there was a dreaming, prophetic look in his eyes.
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