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It's sartinly too cold to let a man stand in the holler long, whether he be sober or drunk;" with which remark the Trapper stepped to the door, and flung it open. "What is it, Wild Bill? what is it?" he called. "Be ye drunk, or be ye sober, that ye stand there shoutin' in the cold with a log cabin within a dozen rods of ye?" "Sober, John Norton, sober. Sober as a Moravian preacher at a funeral."
"If she had been half a mile to the nor'ard she might have stood through Norton Gut and been safe," observed Halliburt; "but if she is a stranger there is little chance of her hauling off in time to escape the sands."
Norton, for Cousin Harry was no stranger to that gentleman, who had often been a visitor at his father's house or rather I should say rectory, in Kent always an agreeable one, for he had travelled much, and could make himself a most interesting companion. 'I did not tell you yesterday, Mr.
To which Norton answered at first with a questioning frown; then cleared his brow and laughed. "You'd like anything that made you different from the rest of the world," he said. "But you're a Pink! and that makes it of course." "You used to say I was a brick," said Matilda. "So you are. I'll fight any boy that says you aren't." But that made Matilda laugh so much that Mrs.
To prevent the possibility of such a catastrophe, David took the plates from her, and Matilda grasped Norton with both her little hands. "I'm going!" he said. "No, you aren't." "I am, I tell you, Pink. I'll not stand by and allow it. I'll expose Judy and clear you, before everybody, this minute." "Stop, Norton. You can't do it. Listen to me. You mustn't." "Now is the very time."
His strong, cheery voice, added to the necessity of the circumstances, braced up my nerves. I took hold of his arm, and we marched on bravely through the shut-up town, and for a mile or two along the high-road leading to Norton Bury. There was a cool fresh breeze: and I often think one can walk so much further by night than by day.
Only when he had set a match to the brown cylinder and drawn the first of the smoke did he answer. "You've said it all now, have you?" he demanded. "Yes," said Galloway. "It's up to you this time. What's the word?" Norton laughed. "When I decide what I am going to do I always do it," he said lightly. "And as a rule I don't do a lot of talking about it beforehand.
"There's something weird and mysterious about the robbery, Kennedy. They took the very thing I treasure most of all, an ancient Peruvian dagger." Professor Allan Norton was very much excited as he dropped into Craig's laboratory early that forenoon. Norton, I may say, was one of the younger members of the faculty, like Kennedy.
"You'll wait around a little longer?" asked Kennedy as we came to a corner and stopped. "I think so," returned Norton. "I'll keep you posted." Kennedy and I walked on a bit. "I'm going around to see how Burke, O'Connor's man, is getting on watching the Mendoza apartment, Walter," he said at length. "Then I have two or three other little outside matters to attend to. You look tired.
The father of the eminent Boston physician whose recent loss is so deeply regretted, the Reverend Pitt Clarke, forty-two years pastor of the small fold in the town of Norton, Massachusetts, was a typical example of this union of the two callings, and it would be hard to find a story of a more wholesome and useful life, within a limited and isolated circle, than that which the pious care of one of his children commemorated.
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