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Updated: June 8, 2025
It was the same rough, fierce game of leaping, crawling, wading, swimming, battling with the river, the rocks, the ledges. But now they were no longer checked and halted by the alternate stoppings for set-ups and turning-points, and no longer was Blake encumbered with the care of the level.
Cochrane winced. A neurotic type if there ever was one! "Jed," said Holden heartily, "here's Mr. Dabney. Mr. Dabney, Jed Cochrane is here as a specialist in public-relations set-ups. He'll take charge of this affair. Your father-in-law sent him up here to see that you are done justice to!" Dabney seemed to think earnestly before he spoke. "It is not for myself," he explained in an anxious tone.
Directly before me was the long work-bench that ran the full length of the room, littered with a dozen set-ups for as many experiments. At my left was a sizable piece of apparatus that was strange to me; on a small enameled table beside it was a rather large sheet of paper, weighted down with a cracked Florence flask. In a sort of panic, I snatched up the paper.
This ardor still possessed June when she went into the dining-room to make the set-ups for supper. She sang snatches of "Dixie" and "My Old Kentucky Home" as she moved about her work. She hummed the chorus of "Juanita." From that she drifted to the old spiritual "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot." A man was washing his hands in the tin basin provided outside for guests of the hotel.
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