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Updated: May 8, 2025
"About fifteen or twenty minutes, certainly, not much longer than that." "Now, who was the outsider?" "Why, I er I " "Answer me, Smith!" And now Captain Putnam's voice was as keen as the blade of a knife. He stood before the frightened cadet, looking him squarely in the eyes. "It was Lew Flapp. But, oh, please, don't let him know I told you! He'll kill me if he finds it out!"
Jack went below and found that the report about the guard was true. The cadets were on duty, and he was not allowed to even speak to Pepper. "It's too bad," he said, on returning to the dormitory. "I guess poor Pepper will have to remain where he is." "We might protest to Mr. Strong?" suggested Bart Conners. "It wouldn't do any good. Crabtree is in charge during Captain Putnam's absence."
They made a very pretty picture, the little jet-black mare, and the mistress with her scarlet paragon bodice, even if the latter was entirely too pronounced for the taste of the great majority of the inhabitants, young and old, of Salem village. "But how do you happen to be here?" said the girl. "I called to see you, and found you had gone on a visit to Joseph Putnam's.
"Come live with me and be my love; And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dales and fields, Woods, or steep mountains, yield." Marlowe. Sanderson, recovering his self-possession almost immediately, drawled out: "Glad to see you, Dave. Came over thinking I might be in time to go over to Putnam's with your people. They had gone, so I stopped long enough to get warm.
"They think I know nothing about him. I know some, and I want to know more." "I'll settle that," said Joses. The jockey was pulling the mare's ears thoughtfully. "You'd like to take a little bit of Putnam's, I daresay?" he said. "I wouldn't mind if I did," replied the tout. "It was them done you down at the trial," continued the jockey. "Old Mat and his Monkey and Silver Mug. The old gang."
It was Sunday morning at Putnam's, and in Maudie's estimation things were more comme il faut than they had been for long past. About a fortnight since there had been trouble in the yard during the night, and after it, for some hours before he went away, the Monster-without-Manners had been subdued almost to gentlemanliness. Then two of the fan-tails had been taken ill.
The best of these, hitherto, and better even than the Atlantic for some reasons, the lamented Putnam's Magazine, had perished of inanition at New York, and the claim of the commercial capital to the literary primacy had passed with that brilliant venture. New York had nothing distinctive to show for American literature but the decrepit and doting Knickerbocker Magazine.
Putnam and his men were out as soon as the sap in the trees was flowing, and long before, in fact, keeping watch upon and trying to check the operations of the notorious Tryon and his crew. It chanced that he met the British, fifteen hundred strong, when on a visit to his outpost at Horseneck, now "Putnam's Hill," in Greenwich, Conn.
The blood polo-pony under the elms, with the little group of coachmen and grooms gathered in an admiring circle round him, was his: and those who had seen Mat drive on to the course in the morning knew that the young man had ridden over the Downs from Putnam's with him. Boy took her place at the ropes. The young man found himself standing at her side. He did not watch the race.
Days together in the saddle, the risks and small adventures of the field, and by no means least those long hacks home at evening, not seldom in the dark, over the Downs, a great wind blowing gustily under clear stars, did their sure, unconscious work. Up to Christmas the young man visited Putnam's regularly. Then he missed two successive week-ends. When he came again there was a cloud over him.
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