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Updated: May 31, 2025
"Thirty miles," groaned Crazy Jane. "Oh, help!" moaned Margery. "Thave uth!" lisped Grace. "I thought you girls wanted recreation and exercise," laughed the guardian. "Why, of course we do, Miss Elting," declared Harriet. "Of course," agreed Jane, nodding. "But dragging a house all around a thirty-mile lake is neither exercise nor recreation. It's hard labor.
"I suppose," ventured Steering, "that it would be foolish to hope for deposits in this part of the State similar to the deposits about Joplin, and all through the thirty-mile stretch?" "Pouf!" Old Bernique made one of his pretty gestures, but said nothing. "You have," went on Steering, "you have to the west here the Canaan Tigmores, Mr. Bernique?" "Eh?
The Valley Army was then on its thirty-mile march from Frederick's Hall to Ashland, where it arrived on the twenty-fifth, fifteen miles north. McClellan had over a hundred thousand men. Lee had less than ninety thousand, even after Jackson had joined him. To attack McClellan's strongly fortified front, with its almost impregnable flanks, would have been suicide.
It was the bitterest January that the hill country had known in twenty years; but mile by mile that month the twin lines of steel crept steadily into the north under the urgings of Garry's smooth voice. The snowfall for February broke all records for half that period; but Steve, with his handful of men at Thirty-Mile, put his piling down.
Hers was the sad face when they entered the clearing at Thirty-Mile and a hoarse shout saluted her return. In her father's embrace she clung and wondered that she did not cry. And two pages had turned for her that day, for she sent Wickersham back his ring the same night the private car rolled down to Morrison.
"Better look out where you land!" Harry called back. "I hope I won't get into any such scrape as you did," Ned replied. "Oh, you're not out of it yet!" laughed Frank. "These woods are full of man-eaters. Look out where you go, and we'll find a place for you to come down." The anchor of the Black Bear was lifted and the power turned on. In a minute she was going down stream at a thirty-mile gait.
Imagine yourself with a thirty-mile trip to make down a twisty, rough mountain road built in the days when men hauled ore down the mountain on wagons built to bump over rocks without damage to anything but human bones. You are Casey Ryan, remember; you never stopped for stage robbers or grizzlies in the past, and you have your record to maintain as the hardest driver in the West.
There had been more than one moment in those forty-eight hours which had elapsed since he had lifted that black-robed, inert figure from the floor in which Steve had wondered whether Garry Devereau would even await his return to Thirty-Mile; more than once he had smiled whimsically to himself, during the trip back up-river, over the scene which he was certain would meet his eyes, had Garry chosen to wait.
But the few men who still remained at Thirty-Mile, felling and hauling the piles which were to carry the track across the swamp, noticed a difference in their chief that morning which made them careful to hear him, the first time he spoke an order. Barbara did not write again, and in this, at least, the man who loved her anticipated her correctly.
We went down the road at a thirty-mile clip, made a quick turn at the four corners, and were back almost before the dust we raised had settled. "That's something like," said our host; "but the old horse is a good enough automobile for me." The hold-all was soon strapped in place, and at half-past nine we were off for Pittsfield.
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