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Updated: May 25, 2025
"It was a painting of a man's face and by pressing the eye a spring was released and the whole picture swung back, showing a cavity back of it in which the old miser kept his valuables." Scip, who was always cutting some caper, here rose to his feet, saying "Dunno, but mebbe Massa Swanson keep he truck behind that chromiow.
Senator Swanson, acting chairman of the Naval Committee in Congress, said on June 6, after a conference with Secretary Daniels and his assistants, that the naval forces of the Entente Powers had destroyed 60 per cent of all German submarines constructed, and that they had cut the shipping losses in half.
Cummings, blowing a blue column of tobacco smoke toward the rafters, said: "It's always been a question to me where he keeps his money. There's no bank around here." "Oh! he's a shrewd old chap, Swanson is," replied the Doctor. He has a private bank somewhere near here probably." "Seems to me that would be pretty risky," said Cummings.
Further private conversation was barred by the massive form of Swanson filling the door, and urging his friend the Doctor to let "his nigger" take charge of the stock. "Can't be did, colonel," said the Doctor, "can't be trusted alone near this pack. Scip has too much love for the bottom of the flask to allow him too much freedom here." "Well, I'll send one of the boys out.
Silence. . . . The song of birds. PETER: Often at night I sit at my window and regard the stars. PETER: I know them all: Venus, Mars, Neptune, Gloria Swanson. MR. ICKY: I don't take no stock in astronomy.... I've been thinking o' Lunnon, laddie. PETER: I liked Ulsa, Mr. Icky; she was so plump, so round, so buxom. MR. ICKY: Not worth the paper she was padded with, laddie.
The new governor in this instance one Corporal A. E. Archer or ex-Congressman Archer, as he was sometimes called was, unlike Swanson, a curious mixture of the commonplace and the ideal one of those shiftily loyal and loyally shifty who make their upward way by devious, if not too reprehensible methods.
"The other Swanson raised merry hell that day, raving about the deck, mourning for his dead brother. But his grief was short-lived, for when we tried to waken him next watch he was cold and stiff. We buried him with the ceremonies, and began to think all of us. We wondered whether men may rake up ill-gotten treasure from a dead past without coming under influences of that dead past.
To the eye, the men were less similar: Littlefield, a hedge-scholar, tall and horse-faced; Chum Frink, a trifle of a man with soft and mouse-like hair, advertising his profession as poet by a silk cord on his eye-glasses; Vergil Gunch, broad, with coarse black hair en brosse; Eddie Swanson, a bald and bouncing young man who showed his taste for elegance by an evening waistcoat of figured black silk with glass buttons; Orville Jones, a steady-looking, stubby, not very memorable person, with a hemp-colored toothbrush mustache.
She should have gone to Gregory's aid. She might have done something. At least she could have discovered the identity of his assailant. If she had gone at once for Swanson, he might have arrived in time to prevent the shot.
Jim Cummings and Dan Moriarity were of the number. Thick clouds of tobacco smoke curled and eddied to the low ceiling, and seated near the fire to get the benefit of the light were a couple of card-playing ranchmen, indulging in a game of California Jack. Standing with his back to the blaze, his feet spread apart, and his hands deep in his pockets, stood the owner of the ranche Swanson.
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