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Updated: May 10, 2025
And, taking the sheet of paper in his hand, he studied the dimensions of the poem, without paining himself to read it. "Well, I guess, maybe we can do it," he said. "How much ought we to charge her?" This question sent Henry Rooter into a state of calculation, while Florence observed him with veiled anxiety; but after a time he looked up, his brow showing continued strain.
I'd trust him further than any regular doctor I know, even if he doesn't belong to their medical societies and all that. They're jealous of him; that's what's the matter with them." "Good for you!" laughed Hal, feeling his doubts melt at the fire of her enthusiasm. "You're a good rooter for the business." "So's the whole shop. I guess your father is the most popular employer in Worthington.
They thrust her out into the circle of waiting men and she planted her feet firmly apart, glaring at them all indiscriminately until she sighted Travis. Then her anger became hotter and more deadly. "Pig! Rooter in the dirt! Diseased camel " she shouted at him in English and then reverted to her own tongue, her voice riding up and down the scale.
You don't get your ole poem in our newspaper!" "Not if she lived to be two hunderd years old!" Henry Rooter added. Then he had an afterthought. "Not unless she pays for it." "How do you mean?" Herbert asked, puzzled by this codicil. Now Henry's brow had become corrugated with no little professional impressiveness. "You know what we were talkin' about this morning?" he said.
At Miss Johnson's open flouting, Cicily had flushed painfully. Now, however, she was ready with a retort to Mrs. Carrington's implied criticism: "Oh, on the contrary!" she exclaimed. "Why, I was chief rooter of the Pi Iota Gammas, when I went to boarding-school at Briarcliff."
Henry Rooter says he never told a lie yet, in his whole life, mamma, and he wasn't going to begin now." She paused for a moment, then added: "I don't believe a word he says!" She continued to meditate disapprovingly upon Henry Rooter. "Old thing!" she murmured gloomily, for she had indeed known moments of apprehension concerning the grape-seeds.
It was the figure of Miss Florence Atwater, seething with furious agitations. "Vile thieves!" she panted. "Who?" Noble asked, brushing at his knees, while Florence made some really necessary adjustments of her own attire. "Who were they?" "It was my own cousin, Herbert, and that nasty little Henry Rooter and their gang.
And upon the Saturday of that week, when the notebook writers were upon the fence the greater part of the afternoon, Florence's fascinated indignation became vocal. "Vile Things!" she said. Her mother, sewing beside another window of the room, looked up inquiringly. "What are, Florence?" "Cousin Herbert and that nasty little Henry Rooter." "Are you watching them again?" her mother asked.
"You're right about that!" Henry Rooter agreed heartily. "We wouldn't let another one in it. Not for fifty dollars! Just look at all the trouble we took, moiling and toiling, to get your ole poem printed as nice as we could, so it wouldn't ruin our newspaper, and then you come over here and go on like this, and all this and that, why, I wouldn't go through it again for a hunderd dollars!
At times the noted eyes of Atwater & Rooter were gentled o'er with the soft cast of enchantment, especially when Patty felt called upon to reprove the two with little coquetries of slaps and pushes. "Now I tell you what let's play," the versatile Patty proposed, after exhausting the pleasures of "Geography," "Ghosts" and other tests of intellect.
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