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The old man shook his head sadly, rummaging in an absent way among the dusty bottles. "Great Sardanapolis! Where?" Kink Mitchell exploded, unable longer to restrain himself. "You don't say you've had the plague?" "Why, ain't you heerd?" The old man chuckled quietly. "They-all's gone to Dawson." "What-like is that?" Bill demanded. "A creek? or a bar? or a place?"
Naughty whined; Sardanapolis edged toward him and mechanically he began to brush him down until he shone as sleek and shining as his Assyrian namesake. More days passed and Mr. Heatherbloom continued to linger in his last position. It promised to be a record-making situation from the standpoint of longevity; he had never "lasted" at any one task so long before.
While Sardanapolis isn't given any at all." Can violet eyes shine fiercely? Hers certainly seemed to. "How," she said, examining him as one would study something very remote and impersonal, "did my aunt happen to employ you? I know she is very particular about recommendations. What ones did you have? Were they forged ones," suddenly, "or stolen ones?"
He noticed, however, that unlike the maid, she had a very prominent nose that now sniffed! "Good heavens! What a frightful odor of gasolene. Jane, where are my salts?" Jane rushed in; at the same time four or five dogs that had followed in the lady's wake began to bark as if they, too, were echoing the plaint: "What a frightful odor! Salts, Jane, salts!" "Sardanapolis! Beauty! Curly!
I don't know my own mind, and that's what's the trouble." "Why, it would be rank ridiculousness for me to take that dog along," he broke out after another pause. "I'm agreein' with you," was Matt's answer, and again his employer was not quite satisfied with him. "But how in the name of the great Sardanapolis he knows you're goin' is what gets me," the dog-musher continued innocently.
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