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Updated: May 23, 2025
"Arrah! bad luck to you, is it after mocking Judy Flanagan you are, you tafe?" Here she burst into a loud horse-laugh, slapping her legs with both her hands, "You an officer of the old Fogs! ha, ha, ha! Arrah, none of your blarney, honey." "However you may laugh," said I, "I am an officer of the old Fogs, as you call them, and I am come to join them."
Uncle Peter was writing on a telegraph blank. "TAFE & COPLEN, Butte, Montana. "Due Butte 7.30 A.M. to-morrow. Join me on car nought sixteen, go to Montana City. To the porter who answered his ring he handed the message to be put off at the first stop. "But what's it all about?" asked Percival, seeing by Uncle Peter's manner that he was expected to show concern.
We think they procured a copy of the will we kept in our safe at Butte through the clerk that Tafe fired awhile back because of his drinking habits and because he was generally suspicious of him. Of course that's only surmise." "But can't we fight it?" demanded Percival, hungrily attacking the crisp, brown little trout.
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