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This amiable question was habitual with Mr. Pollock. He varied it a little when the object of his polite concern happened to be of the opposite sex; then he gallantly substituted the word "appetite." It was never necessary to reply to Mr. Pollock's question.
Pollock brought out a half-dollar, which he tendered to Dick. "What am I to do with this?" asked the young sophomore. "Anything you please," replied the editor. "The money's for you." "For me?" gasped Dick. "Yes, of course. Didn't you write this yarn for me? Of course 'The Blade' is only a country daily, and our space rates are not high.
He held up his stringy hands and squeaked, "We've all missed you terrible." Who in Washington would miss her? Who in Washington could be depended upon like Guy Pollock? When she saw him on the street, smiling as always, he seemed an eternal thing, a part of her own self. After a week she decided that she was neither glad nor sorry to be back.
His profit was to have come out of the second year's crop and, he felt, out of that bottom land which had so charmed him on the day he and Henry Pollock had gone over the Atterson Place. Riches lay buried in that six acres of bottom.
Jack Pollock seemed familiar with the idiosyncrasies of the stuff, for he suffered little damage. Indeed, he even found leisure, as Bob soon discovered, to scrutinize his companion with a covert curiosity. In the eyes of the countryside, Bob had been "fired," and had been forced to take a job rangering.
Guilt denied Maude Baggs Pollock the right to claim authorship of these imperishable lines, and to this day they remain unidentified in the archives of the Windomville Public Library, displayed upon request by Alaska Spigg, their proud and unselfish donor. Courtney read two of his letters. The third he consigned, unopened, to the fireplace at Dowd's Tavern.
Since Kennicott, Vida Sherwin, and Guy Pollock were her only lions, and since Kennicott would have preferred Sam Clark to all the poets and radicals in the entire world, her private and self-defensive clique did not get beyond one evening dinner for Vida and Guy, on her first wedding anniversary; and that dinner did not get beyond a controversy regarding Raymie Wutherspoon's yearnings.
She had cast in her lot with the Royalists, but it came over her that in the eternal justice Pollock, dying on the scaffold, was already victor, and Graham, who sent him there, was already the loser.
By this time Mr. Pollock, Dick and Dave were speeding for "The Blade" office. Already a run had started on the Second National Bank. A crowd filled the counting room and extended out onto the sidewalk. Their depositors, largely small business men and people who ran private check accounts, were frightfully nervous about their money.
They'd have to turn over a new leaf for a fact before they could don the khaki." "And," said Josh Kingsley, "when such tough fellows as Tony Pollock, Asa Green, Wedge McGuffey and Dock Phillips start to turning leaves you can begin to see angel wings sprouting back of their shoulder blades." There were already five boys who had given in their names to make up a second patrol.
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