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Mostly arms and legs, Skeet is, and sort of swivel-jointed all over, with a back slope to his forehead and an under-cut chin. Nothin' reticent about his beak, though. It juts out from the middle of his face like the handle of a lovin' cup, and with his habit of stretchin' his neck forward he always seems to be followin' a scent, like one of these wienerwurst retrievers.
Somebody had taught him that. His face began to change. He began to look friendlier and like himself again, except he looked older and like he knew more. And then he began to talk: "Skeet," he says, "I'm not Tom Sawyer, and I never was; never any more than you was Huckleberry Finn. I know who I am now. Do you?" "No," says I. "Who are you?" "Well, I'll tell you, Skeet I'm Hamlet."
You see I'm a little mixed up after all; and ain't grown folks mixed up? I never see anybody more mixed about what to do than my pa sometimes. But I'll tell you this much, Skeet, we wouldn't be here to-night, and we wouldn't be on our way now to see Tom Sawyer if it warn't for one thing." "What's that?" says I. "Zueline," says Mitch.
"How's that?" says he, twistin' his neck uneasy. "Notice the two gents I was just talkin' with," I goes on, "specially the savage-lookin' one with the framed lamps? Well, that was Hubby. He's got one of these hair-trigger dispositions too." "Pooh!" says Skeet. But he's listenin' close. "I'm only tellin' you," says I. "Then the big one with the wide shoulders that's Brother.
Jump 'em, if you' kin. If yo' can't, skeet out an' git enough t' down 'em an' git us out." Si and Shorty recognized that the time for words was passed. They snatched up their guns and fired in the direction of the hail. The other boys did the same. There was a patter of replying shots, aimed at the fire around which they had been standing, but had moved away from. Apparently, Capt.
"What do you mean by lose her?" says I. "You'll always be in the same town and in the same school, and you'll always be friends." "Oh, yes," said Mitch, "but that's just the trouble to be in the same town and the same school and not to have her the same. I've got a funny feelin', Skeet it's bound to happen.
Keep it from mother if you can. I'm leaving but we'll get it all fixed up. How did you get here? Can I take you back in the limousine?" The big, closed car, one of Vandeman's wedding gifts to her, purred slowly up the side drive, circling Skeet's old truck, and stopped a little beyond. Skeet gave it one glance, then reached a twitching hand to catch on the big silken sleeve.
We forgot everything, until finally Mitch motioned to me and we went out-doors. Mitch said: "I was goin' to have a funeral over Fanny, but I can't stand it, Skeet. Let's just you and I bury her, here by the barn." So we dug a grave and buried Fanny, and Mitch cried. And then we went into the house and went to bed. The next day was Sunday, and the wonderfulest day you ever saw.
Mounting the second rise, he saw another whom he knew. A quarter of a mile to his left, on the tiny porch of a lone adobe, sat Skeet under a hat, feet elevated to the porch railing, head turned in a listening attitude, as though heeding a call, or many calls, from the direction of a brick-and-stone structure to the southwest.
"See here, Skeet," Ina obviously restrained herself, "that's what we're all trying to do for Worth: forget about it make nothing of it act exactly as if it'd never happened. You ought to come on out to the ball with the other girls. You're just staying away because Barbara Wallace is." "I'm not. Some damn fool went and told mother about Worth being arrested, and made her a lot worse.
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