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About the worst specimen of tatter-demalion that I ever saw outside of trampdom used to come into town every week, always with a loaded Winchester on his shoulder. He may have washed his face now and then, but there was no sign that he ever combed his mane. I took him for one of those defectives alluded to in a previous chapter; but no, I was told he was "nobody's fool."
"You hadn't oughter ring the door-bell! The airy's for such as you!" "It is Miriam!" cried Mollie, running to the door. "It is surely Miriam at last!" But it was not Miriam. It was a dirty-faced boy a tatter-demalion of fourteen years with sharp, knowing black eyes. Those intelligent orbs fixed on the young lady at once. "Be you Miss Dane Miss Mollie Dane miss?" "Yes," said Mollie. "Who are you?"