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Updated: June 8, 2025
Who makes Bohn whadt he is on Dry Pon'? Who makes Gheorge Bohn whad he is in dis counthry? Dem very peeples who he is now thrin' ter kill. Dem broke down ristercrats, sich as Moss an' odders, cares no more fer sich as him den dey do fur de grass neat der feets. When dey gits demselfs in office dem Dutchmen kin go, po bocras kin go, dey cares noddings fur yo when dey wus rich.
"Shore then it was Greaves yellin'," declared Blaisdell. "By God, I never heard such yells! Whad 'd you do, Jean?" "I knifed him. You see, I'd planned to slip up on one after another. An' I didn't want to make noise. But I didn't get any farther than Greaves." "Wal, I reckon that 'll end their shootin' in the dark," muttered Gaston Isbel.
But one morning as they came down to the beach he startled the baron by saying: "I want to blay." "Yes, 'ighness, whad shall we blay ad?" said the Baron von Habelschwert uncomfortably, after a little hesitation. "I don't want to blay wiz you," said the prince in a tone which showed, beyond any possibility of misconception, that on that matter his mind was made up.
And that is what brings me to the Migrants' to-day, where, by the greatest piece of good luck, I have found the very man yourself, Professor that I was most anxious to find." "Good!" exclaimed the professor; "you wanted to vind me, and here I am, quide at your service, my dear Sir Reginald. Whad gan I do vor you?"
You mighd doss all those crysdals indo the fire with imbunidy; but bowder them and mix indo a baste with a zerdain acid, and whad you now hold in your hand would develop exblosive bower enough to demolish this building," was the quiet reply.
It was evident the next sentence was premeditated. "Whad I was going to say was this," said the swart man, and sought through a silence for further words. "Whad I was going to say was this," he repeated. Finally he abandoned that gambit. "You're aw right," he cried, laying a grimy hand on Denton's grimy sleeve. "You're aw right. You're a ge'man. Sorry very sorry. Wanted to tell you that."
It was not Jessie McRae, but a man, an Indian, the Blackfoot who had ridden out with the girl once to spoil his triumph over the red-coat Beresford. For a moment he stood, stupefied, jaw fallen and mouth open. "Whad you doin' here?" he asked at last. "No food my camp. I hunt," Onistah said. "Tha's a lie. Where's the McRae girl?" The slim Indian said nothing.
"Well, you must send for some," said the princess, who, having taken the first step, was finding it pleasant to be firm. "Moost? Moost? I do nod know whad ees 'appen to you, your Royal Highness. I say eed ees eembossible!" shouted the baroness; and she banged on the table with her fist.
"Mean what, George?" "Subscription to the party funds. Reciprocal advantage. Have we got to that?" "Whad you driving at, George?" "You know. They'd never do it, man!" "Do what?" he said feebly; and, "Why shouldn't they?" "They'd not even go to a baronetcy. NO!.... And yet, of course, there's Boom! And Collingshead and Gorver. They've done beer, they've done snippets!
What you-all doin'?" she demanded, eyeing Nora Wingate, who was making a sweater. "Crocheting, Julie. Knitting, perhaps you call it." "Uh-huh. My gran'ma kin beat you-all knittin'." "Yes?" smiled Nora. "You bet she kin. Why, whad you-all think? Gran'ma takes her knittin' ter bed with 'er and every now and then she throws out a sock. I'll bet a cookie you-all kain't knit like that-away."
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