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Updated: May 18, 2025
Coleman shook hands with the students and the Professor amid cries of surprise and polite regret. "What? Going, oldman? Really? What for ? Oh, wait for us. We're off in a few minutes. Sorry as the devil, old boy, to' see you go." He accepted their protestations with a somewhat sour face. He knew perfectly well that they were thinking of his departure as something that related to Nora Black.
"Will you eat, man? will you smoke a pipe? won't you talk a word? will you go to bed?" These several questions, coming between pauses, elicited nothing from the staring oldman. "Is there a matter wrong at the Bank?" the farmer called out, and Anthony jumped in a heap. "Eh?" persisted the farmer. Rhoda interposed: "Uncle is tired; he is unwell. Tomorrow he will talk to you."
It is from such nicknames that we get surnames like White, Black, Long, Young, Short, and so on. All these are, of course, well-known surnames to-day, and though many men named Long may be small, and many named Short may be tall, we may guess that this was not the case with some far-off ancestor. Sometimes man was added to these adjectives, and we get names like Longman, Oldman, etc.
One of these wild-eyed people would dash into the crowd and haul some struggling upper class-man over to the feminine section. With his victim in tow, he would open conversation feverishly: "Name, please?" "Miss Newcome." "Ah, permit me to introduce Mr. Oldman. Miss Newcome, Mr. Oldman. Isn't it warm to-night? Fine talk of the Doctor's, wasn't it?
"You got to go, Bud, while the going's good. I'd go with yuh if I dared," Jerry mumbled guardedly. "You hit for Crater, Bud, and put that money in the bank. You can cut into the stage road where it crosses Oldman Creek, if you go straight up the race track to the far end, and follow the trail from there. You can't miss it there ain't but one way to go.
To-night, however, Eddie led the way to the right instead of the left, which seemed to Bud a direction that would bring them down Oldman creek, that dry river bed, and finally, perhaps, to the race track.
"Will you eat, man? will you smoke a pipe? won't you talk a word? will you go to bed?" These several questions, coming between pauses, elicited nothing from the staring oldman. "Is there a matter wrong at the Bank?" the farmer called out, and Anthony jumped in a heap. "Eh?" persisted the farmer. Rhoda interposed: "Uncle is tired; he is unwell. Tomorrow he will talk to you."
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