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"He has as much pity as a hungry wolf; in fact, to my mind, he's the more dangerous brute, because I've a feeling that he delights in doing harm. There's something cruel about the man; getting fired out of his profession must have warped his nature. Then there was another point that struck me; why's he going so far to stay with those Indians?" "It's puzzling," Blake said thoughtfully.
Indeed, I hoped to see himself, but he doesn't seem to be in the way. 'No, Miss Theedory, he ain't. And reason why's this. He's bin out with the Fletchers' boat all the day. There's a great take o' mackerrow expected shortly, and the Fletchers they're on the look out; they're always that spry to the main-chance, as you know, deary.
"Isn't it? Yorn's been too close the Throne for too long not to know what sort of a seat it is. He'd commit any crime up to and including genocide to keep off it." She gave a quick skip to get into step with him. "Then why's he filled the Palace with these blackcoats? Is Rod all right?" "Perfectly all right; he's somewhere out in the mountains, keeping Harv Dorflay out of mischief."
"Throuble, indeed!" echoed Bryan, as he sat on a rock smoking his pipe; "troth it's more nor him came to throuble by that same fish: it guve me the throuble o' bein' more nor half choked by Massan." "Half choked, Bryan! what mean you?" asked Frank. "Mane? I just mane what I say; an' the raison why's best known to himself."
Psmith looked on benevolently. "What Comrade Jackson does not know about cats," he said, "is not knowledge. His information on Angoras alone would fill a volume." "Say," Mr. Jarvis was evidently touching on a point which had weighed deeply upon him "why's catnip called catnip?" Mike looked at Psmith helplessly. It sounded like a riddle, but it was obvious that Mr.
John's Epistles, or the principles of Christianity. The bookman, in fact, is a quite illogical and irresponsible being, who dare not claim that he searches for accurate information in his books as for fine gold, and he has been known to say that that department of books of various kinds which come under the head of "what's what," and "why's why," and "where's where," are not literature.
"Why's he walk funny?" persisted William. "Has he hurt his legs?" "Yus," said Blake with a wink. "'E 'urt 'em at the Blue Cow comin' 'ere." Mr. Jones' sheepish smile broadened into a guffaw. "Well, you rest," said William sympathetically. "You lie down on the sofa an' rest. I'll help, so's you needn't do anything!" Mr. Jones grew hilarious. "Come on!" he said. "My eye!
But why's Kirby in such a sweat ter git all these niggers down ter Saint Louee?" "Ter sell 'em, an' git the cash. Onct they're outer the way there won't be no row. He'll let the land yere lie idle fer a year or two, an' by that time nobody'll care a whoop how he got it. But he's got ter git rid o' them niggers right away." "Well, who the hell's goin' ter prevent? They're his'n, ain't they?
Grigsby was standing on the river bank, leaning on his rifle and gazing about rather puzzled, while canoe after canoe was pushing off. "No hurry," he spoke, when Charley and Mr. Adams arrived in haste. "Save your breath." "Why's that?" asked Mr. Adams, sharply. "Our canoe's gone, and so are our boatmen!" That was so! Here was the very spot where the cayuca had been tethered to a pole.
"What did you throw him away for?" asked Percy. "Isn't he good to eat?" "Nothing better! But it's the State law. Everything that comes short of four and three-fourths inches, solid bone measure, from the tip of the nose to the end of the back, has to be thrown over where it's caught." "Why's that?" "To keep 'em from being exterminated.
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