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Updated: April 30, 2025
But at the end of a lane leading into Treville Street, and as I leapt aside to avoid colliding with the hind-wheels of a hackney-coach drawn in there and at a standstill close by the kerb, to my unspeakable fright I felt myself gripped by the jacket-collar. "Hi! Bring-to and 'vast kicking, young coal-dust! Where're ye bound, hey? Answer me, and take your black mop out of a gentleman's weskit."
There was a dash of hoofs behind them, and a man who rode like a sack of bran came bouncing up, excitement over his large face. "What's up, Macdonald where're you off to?" he inquired. Macdonald told him in a word, riding forward as he spoke. He introduced the stranger as a newspaper correspondent from Chicago, who had arrived at the homesteaders' camp the evening past.
An English private soldier was detailed to go on listening-post with me. Again, the raw soldier is never left to his own devices on first coming in. He is given the support of a veteran on all occasions, unless under some very special condition. "Hie!" called the private to me, "where're yer goin' to?" "Back, ye bally ass!" He looked his contempt.
"Mammy, where're we gowun? Mammy, I'm tired." Then, at last, for the first time, that plaint that stabbed the mother's heart: "Mammy, I'm hungry." "Be qui-ut, den," said Mrs. Hooven. "Bretty soon we'll hev der subber." Passers-by on the sidewalk, men and women in the great six o'clock homeward march, jostled them as they went along.
"Come back out o' this with yuh." She caught Mrs. Cregan's arm. "It's no thing to be doin' on the street! Come back, now. Where're yuh goin'?" Mrs. Cregan marched stolidly ahead and carried her neighbor with her. "I've quit 'm." "Quit who?" "Himsilf.... Dinny." Mrs. Byrne expressed her emotion and showed her tact by silently compressing her lips. "I've quit 'im, fer good an' all."
"That's just my ailing," wheezed the other; "but you're lamer than me," he added with a forlorn sort of self-satisfaction, critically eyeing Israel's limp as once, more he stumped on his way, not liking to tarry too long. "But halloo, what's your hurry, friend?" seeing Israel fairly departing "where're you going?"
The pale woman began to talk in a low tone. "I want to get away from here," she said, "I wish I could hear birds sing and see green things grow." Beaut McGregor had an idea. "You come with me," he said. He got up and climbed over the logs and the pale woman followed. The fat boy shouted at them, relieving his own embarrassment by trying to embarrass them. "Where're you going you two?" he shouted.
It was some time since she had visited her, and she had an overpowering longing for Granny. She crept out of bed and put on her shoes. Her mother raised herself; "Where're you going?" "Just going outside," answered Ditte faintly. "Put a skirt on, it's very cold," said Lars Peter "we might just as well have kept the new piece of furniture in here," he growled shortly afterwards.
Above it on a blue board in letters of gold-leaf a foot high was the name of the tug. As David read it his breath left him, a finger of ice passed slowly down his spine. The name he read was The Three Friends. "She's a filibuster! She's a pirate! Where're we going? "To Cuba!" David emitted a howl of anguish, rage, and protest. "What for?" he shrieked. The young man regarded him coldly.
He walked a few paces to and fro with hands strongly clenched, his lips slightly parted, showing teeth close-shut like those of a mastiff. He looked eager, passionate, cunning, hard as steel, and that strange brightness of elation slowly shaded to a dark, brooding menace. Suddenly he wheeled to silence the noisy men. "Where're Pearce and Gulden? Do they know?" he demanded.
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