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The Carson City stringer was ordered to get out to the scene on the double and hold the fort while reinforcements of staffers and photographers were flown from 'Frisco.
Even the porter of the dead car deserted his official corpse, and after Number One pulled out of Medicine Bend and stuck her slim, aristocratic nose fairly into the big ranges the Lalla Rookh was left as dead as a stringer to herself and her reflections reflections of brilliant aisles and staterooms inviting with softened lights, shed on couples that resented intrusion; of sections bright with lovely faces and decks ringing with talk and laughter; of ventilators singing of sunshine within, and of night and stars and waste without for the Lalla Rookh carried only the best people, and after the overland voyage on her tempered springs and her yielding cushions they felt an affection for her.
"Cutter 'hoy!" bellowed the man beside Stringer, using his hands in lieu of a megaphone "heave to!" "Give 'em 'in the King's name!" directed Rogers again. "Cutter 'hoy," roared the man through his trumpeted hands, "heave to in the King's name!" Stringer glared through the fog, clutching at the shoulder of the shouter almost convulsively. "Take no notice, sir," reported the man.
The hopes of the Worcester fans had been crushed too often of late for them to be fearless. But I had no fear. I only wanted the suspense ended. I was like a man clamped in a vise. Stringer stood motionless. Mac bent low with the sprinters' stoop; Ash watched the pitcher's arm and slowly edged off first. Stringer waited for one strike and two balls, then he hit the next.
"Under the pine, and yours, too. I found the pony, but I couldn't find your saddle, Nan." "I know where it's hidden. Let's get the horses." "Just a minute. I stuck my rifle under this porch." He stooped and felt below the stringer. Rising in a moment with the weapon on his arm, the two hurried around the end of the house toward the pine-tree.
I came over here some time ago to rope in a contract with the British Government over some steel fixtures. I was partner with a man named Aaron Stringer. Well, I failed on the contract and found myself broke with less than ten pounds in my pocket. I was sitting in the Savoy lounge when in came a man whom I knew at once by sight, but I couldn't place his name on him.
"Yes, there is," he acknowledged, "but say, Drusilla I'm going to buy out the Dutchman. I believe that stringer of his is rich." "What stringer?" she demanded looking up from her own musings and then she nodded and sighed. "Yes, I know," she said, "you're back at your mining but you promised you'd think only of me.
What did he think of himself and of a fame so bounded? Did he ever dream he was indeed an artist? Or how did this feeling in him differ from the vulgar conceit of the lowest pretender? The best known of his works is a portrait of an alderman of Exeter, in some public building in that city. Poor Dan. Stringer!
Through the sheets of rain all peered eagerly. "She seems to be pretty well loaded," reported the man beside Stringer, "but I can't make her out very well." "Are we doing our damnedest?" inquired Rogers. "We are, sir," reported the engineer; "she hasn't got another oat in her!" Rogers muttered something beneath his breath, and sat there glaring ahead at the boat ever gaining upon her pursuer.
It's important." "Why, ye don't suspect him of owt, do yer, Mestur Stringer?" asked somebody. "A respectable young feller like that theer come!" "I'm sayin' nowt about suspectin' nobody!" vociferated the blacksmith. "I'm doin' nowt but puttin' a case, as t' lawyers 'ud term it. I say 'at theer's a lot o' things 'at owt to ha' comed out.
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