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Updated: May 23, 2025
The boy turned his back to the rail and faced him impassively. In the brilliant sunshine, he looked singularly worn and wise. "I brung dem wires," he said courageously plying the cigar. "Any answer?" "I'll see, after a while," said Varney, hastily lighting a pipe as counter-irritant. "So you're the telegraph boy, are you?" "Nawser. Odjobbin' I do. Anythink as comes handy.
"Then I suppose old Sam Orrick," he said kindly, "is your father's father." "Nawser," he answered slowly. And he added presently, "He wuz me mudder's father." After that, the silence lengthened. Varney looked off down the river. Tommy Orrick, whose father was named something else, clapped his hand suddenly to his lip, because his cigar just then scorched it unbearably.
That ain't no fun, sir." "Don't you suppose I know fun when I meet it in the road, you little rascal? You stay here till it's all over and then I want you to come down to the yacht, and we'll have some dinner. Then I'll put you up for the night and to-morrow morning we'll go to New York together, eh? How's that?" But Tommy said: "Nawser. We can't go yet. Somebody sent me to bring you.
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