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Updated: June 11, 2025
It seemed likely he would harry the district till some lucky accident carried him off, for all chance there was of arresting him. You could still hear nightly in the Sylvester Arms and elsewhere the assertion, delivered with the same dogmatic certainty as of old, "It's the Terror, I tell yo'!" and that irritating, inevitable reply: "Ay; but wheer's the proof?"
Theer's a voice hid in you. Listen to that. Nature's spawk to 'e an' now er's dumb. Listen to t'other, lassie. Nature do guide beasts an' birds an' the poor herbs o' the field; but you you listen to t'other. You'll never be happy no more till you awns 'twas a sad mistake an' do ax in the right plaace for pardon." "I want no pardon," she said. "I have done no wrong, I tell 'e. Wheer's justice to?
It was Sally Trevennick, who faced the spiteful laughter without flinching and said a few loud, friendly words, though indeed her well-meant support brought scant comfort with it for the victim. "Lard sakes! Joan, doan't 'e take on so at them buzzin' fools! 'Tedn' the trouble, 'tis the money make 'em clatter! Bah! Wheer's the wan of them black-browed gals as 'alf the money wouldn' buy?
"Then supposin' you show me the color o' your money?" he growled, "come, money fust; I aren't takin' no more risks." For answer I laid the coins before him. And having pocketed the money, he filled and thrust a foaming tankard towards me, which I emptied forthwith and called upon him for another. "Wheer's your money?" "Here," said I, tossing a sixpence to him, "and you can keep the change."
"Wheer's the Chinaman Quong?" I recognised the voice of a cowboy whom we had employed: a man known in the foothills as Cock-a-whoop Charlie. "He's here," Ajax answered quietly. A tall, gaunt Missourian, also well known to us as a daring bull- puncher, laughed derisively. "Here is he? Wal, we want him, but we don't want no fuss with you, boys. Yer white, but he's yaller, and he must go."
To-morrow I'll send my box up Drift by the fust omblibus as belongs to Staaft, an' walk myself, an' tell Uncle Thomas all's there is to tell. He've got a heart in his breast, an' I'll bide 'long wi' him till Mister Jan do come back." "Wheer's he to now?" "To Lunnon. He've gone to make his house vitty for me." "Well, best to get Uncle Chirgwin to write to en, onless you'd like me to do it for 'e."
'Lawk a mussy, what ails the man? 'asked Mrs. Mountain, as Samson stood looking round the room. She had never seen such an expression on her husband's face before. The skin was livid under its rude bronze, and his lips twitched strangely. 'Wheer's that wench of ourn? he asked, after a second glance round the room, Mrs. Busker's heart jumped, and she held on tight to the arm-pieces of her chair.
The animal had made a gallant fight, and she shrank from the butchery. The clatter of heavy boots on stones suddenly stopped; there was a curious pause, and Grace looked up as somebody shouted: "'Gone to holt! Ca' off your hounds. Wheer's t' terrier?" The hunt swept up the bank, smashed through a hedge, and spread along the margin of the neighboring pool.
He looked as grave as a judge, did Abe, but then I noticed that he were donned i' his blue overalls, same as if he'd just coom frae his wark. So I said to him: 'Heaven, is it? I can't see mich o' heaven about thee, Abe. Wheer's thy harp an' crown o' gowd? "'Harp an' crown o' gowd, said Abe, an' he started laughin'. 'Who is thou takkin' me for? I'm noan King David.
But you an' me thinks differ'nt an' allus shall, Mrs. Tregenza." "Iss, though I s'pose 'tis the same devil as takes backslidin' church or chapel folks. Let that bide now. Wheer's Joan to? I've got to thank 'e kindly for lookin' arter Tom t'other Sunday night. Tis things like that makes religion uncomfortable.
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