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His voice came back to the man at the table, while his eyes gazed down upon the waters of Farewell Cove, over the widespread roofs of the great groundwood mill, the building of which was the result of his seven years' sojourn on the Labrador coast. "You've handed it me, Bat," he said, in a quick, nervous way. "I'll fight. I know. You guess I'm scared at Nisson's news. Maybe I am, I don't know.
And if you've the horse sense I reckon you have, you'll locate my object easy. Those words of Nisson's have told us plain we got to fight. We got to fight like hell. And the time's right now. Oh, yes, we're going to fight. You an' me, just the same as we've fought a heap of times before. There ain't a feller I know who's got more fight in him than you when you feel that way.
It'll remain under Nisson's guardianship for your use in running this mill. You'll simply satisfy Nisson. For the rest I shan't interfere. You're drawing a big salary now. Well, seeing I go out of the work, that salary will be doubled. That's for the immediate. Then there's the future. I've a notion. Maybe it's a crazy notion. But it's mine and I mean to test it. Here.
Some of these affectionate and confidential manifestations did not eventuate amid the glare and blare of the beer garden's, but away up in a sanctum over a drug store and in other "sweet, retired solitudes," where they could listen to the sweet music of their own speech. Early in January of the present year, Louise possessed a secret which she felt she could confide to no ear but Ludwig Nisson's.
Nisson's lips are red and pouting. He may be seven or eight and twenty. He is very good-looking, and he knows it. As in the case of Mr. Westfall, Ludwig made superhuman efforts to please Miss Ruff when she entered his saloon, in which are seats always "reserved for ladies." In the art of soul-floralization, Ludwig was his predecessor's equal. What could Louise do but listen to his blandishments?
Ludwig Nisson is a handsome young blonde, with lovely flaxen side-whiskers and a rose-pink complexion. Mr. Nisson's chin and upper lip are shaven clean every morning. He wears the latest Fifth-avenue style of store clothes. An ornamental garden of jewelry adorns his vest. His studs are diamonds; his hay-colored hair exhibits the perfection of the barber's skill. Mr.
There was doubt in his eyes, and the hand grasping the letter was not quite steady. But when he spoke his tone was a flat denial of the physical sign that Bat had been quick to observe. "Charlie Nisson's as keen as a needle," Standing said. "His whisper's a sight more than another fellow's shout." Bat regarded the letter. He watched the other lay it aside on a pile of papers.
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