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Updated: May 26, 2025
"We do in the long run. But in this same old Copperhead we have the acutest Indian brain in all the western country. Sitting Bull was a fighter, Copperhead is a schemer." They rode in silence, the Sergeant busy with a dozen schemes whereby he might lay old Copperhead by the heels; the Superintendent planning likewise. But in the Superintendent's plans the Sergeant had no place.
Seaforth, the superintendent's wife, and Miss Daly, the school teacher." "How did you get away?" "The Moros didn't appear to be in force on the side toward the stable, and I wriggled through in the dark, traveling flat on my stomach. I reached a horse at the stable, saddled fast, and then galloped away just as the Moros turned loose a volley that covered the noise of the horse's hoofs."
And in the superintendent's private room the privileged passenger by the Ceres, or Juno, or Pallas, stunned and as it were annihilated mentally by a sudden surfeit of sights, sounds, names, facts, and complicated information imperfectly apprehended, would listen like a tired child to a fairy tale; would hear a voice, familiar and surprising in its pompousness, tell him, as if from another world, how there was "in this very harbour" an international naval demonstration, which put an end to the Costaguana-Sulaco War.
Finally he decided to follow out his original plan of going to the superintendent's office and asking for employment. By inquiry he found that it was located over the passenger station, nearly a mile away from where he stood.
Taylor had ranged up against her, and almost unconsciously she found herself standing by the desk facing the officer. She searched the superintendent's inflexible face to see if it gave any sign of relenting. Foyle was calm, inscrutable, business-like.
"Pretty clean sweep this time, eh, Mac?" was the superintendent's greeting, when he had penetrated to the thick of things where McCloskey was toiling and sweating with his men. "So clean that we get nothing much but scrap-iron out of what's left," growled McCloskey, climbing out of the tangle of crushed cars and bent and twisted iron-work to stand beside Lidgerwood on the main-line embankment.
"Those hombres don't appear to be breaking any speed records, I see," Weir remarked, quietly. "Humph," Atkinson grunted. "What do they think this is? A rest cure?" The superintendent's silence suddenly gave way. "I ought to land on 'em with an ax-handle and put the fear of God in their lazy souls," he exclaimed, bitterly. "Well, do it." "What!" "Do it." "Say, am I hearing right?"
This refining process was slow, painstaking work, and was effected with the help of a flat brass scoop a "blower." By shaking this blower and breathing upon its contents the lighter grains of iron sand were propelled to the edge, as chaff is separated from wheat, and fell into a box held between the superintendent's knees.
Betteredge, I have the greatest faith in him!" Many men, many opinions, as one of the ancients said, before my time. Mr. Superintendent's next proceeding took him back to the "boudoir" again, with my daughter and me at his heels.
"Let's see," cried Zoie, and she stood on tiptoe to peep over the Superintendent's elbow. As for Jimmy, he stood gloomily apart. This was an ordeal for which he had long been preparing himself, and he was resolved to accept it philosophically. "I don't think much of that one," snipped Zoie. And in spite of himself. Jimmy felt his temper rising. Aggie turned to him with a smile.
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