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"Buck and a few o' the boys 'll stay by the gun, against their rallyin' later on, and you might as well go home to your breakfast. Didn't bring your hawss, did ye? Take the mare, and welcome. Buddy and me'll walk." But the Major would not mount, and so the two men walked together as far as the manor-house gates, with Thomas Jefferson a pace in the rear, leading the mare.
"By gum!" quoth Stalky, uncovering as he read. "It's old Duncan Fat-Sow Duncan killed on duty at something or other Kotal. 'Rallyin' his men with conspicuous gallantry. He would, of course. 'The body was recovered. That's all right. They cut 'em up sometimes, don't they, Foxy?" "Horrid," said the sergeant briefly. "Poor old Fat-Sow! I was a fag when he left. How many does that make to us, Foxy?"
But further down in the shadows of Twenty-eighth Street the marauders were holding a parley. "Come on, Reddy," said one. "Let's go frisk the old 'un. He's been showin' a sparkler as big as a hen egg all around Eighth Avenue for two weeks past." "Not on your silhouette," decided Reddy. "You see 'em rallyin' round The Pump? They're friends of Bill's.
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