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Updated: June 1, 2025
Boece's "History" was written in Latin; the title we have just quoted being that of the English version of the work , which title further sets forth that Boece's work was "Translait laitly in our vulgar and commoun langage be Maister Johne Bellenden, Archedene of Murray, And Imprentit in Edinburgh, be me Thomas Davidson, prenter to the Kyngis nobyll grace."
Nicolas came gliding out to see what he could do for their comfort. "Just circulate around and make sure that no one gets close enough to hear what we're talking about," Mr. Prenter directed. He had already ordered the driver of the stage to withdraw a few rods and await orders. "Now, then, Hazelton," continued the treasurer, "we're anxious to hear more of your strange story."
"That riot back in camp," shivered Mr. Bascomb. "I simply abhor all fighting." "So I noticed," commented Mr. Prenter, dryly. "Yes; I believe the trouble is over, unless our young chief engineer intends to stir up something new before bedtime. Do you, Reade?" "I haven't anything in mind," Tom answered with a smile. "Gentlemen, I am afraid you may think I do things with a high hand.
"I wish you would go back, then, and pick out two of each race -six men in all. They must be honest, staunch and able to hold their tongues." "Do you want them for fighting, sir?" asked Peters. "Not a bit of a fight in it. I want them to use their eyes and report to me." "Going to employ spotters on the camp?" asked Mr. Prenter, quickly. "Not a single spot!" Tom declared with emphasis.
"I think I'm better, but I'm awfu' licht i' the heid yet," says Bawbie. "Ye micht get the pen an' ink, Sandy, an' send a scart or twa to thae prenter bodies. Juist say I've taen a kind o' a dwam, but that I'll likely be a' richt again in a day or twa. An' see an' watch your spellin'. Gin ony o' the wirds are like to beat ye, juist speer at me, an' I'll gie ye a hand wi' them."
"I'll make you sweat for this!" raved the stranger. "Let go of the fellow, please," said Tom. Then, as Harry and Mr. Prenter stepped aside, Reade added, "I'll admit, Mr. Bootleg, that I've behaved in a rather high-handed fashion with you. But I'm justified in doing it. You have been breaking the law of the state, moving through this camp and selling liquor.
That has scared the rascals away." "What are the detectives doing, anyway?" asked Harry. "Blessed if I know," Tom yawned. "I believe there are three of them here or over in Blixton, but I wouldn't know one of them, if I fell over him. The detectives came, secured their orders from Mr. Prenter, and went to work -or pretended to go to work. I'm glad that I'm not responsible for the detectives."
There could be no mistaking that order. The messenger started off, nor did he glance backward as long as he was in sight. "You see how easily a chap like Evarts can be disposed of," smiled Mr. Prenter. "He'll send back again for another try, within an hour," prophesied Mr. Bascomb, wearily. "If he does," laughed Dick Prescott, shortly, "his second appeal won't come by the same messenger."
"What was all the row about?" Mr. Prenter asked affably. He was a man of about forty-five, rather stout, with light blue eyes that looked at one with engaging candor. "I have been suggesting to Reade that he might resign," replied Mr. Bascomb, stiffly. "Why?" asked Prenter, opening his eyes wider. "Because he has raised the mischief on this breakwater job.
"What's all this dispute about anyway, Bascomb?" a voice called cheerily from the hallway. "Oh, it's you, is it, Prenter?" asked Mr. Bascomb, turning and not looking overjoyed at the interruption. Simon F. Prenter was treasurer of the Melliston Company. Tom had met him at the time of signing the engineers' contract with the company. Now Reade sprang up to place a chair for the new arrival.
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