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Updated: June 10, 2025
One of these gentlemen was a well-known opera manager in London; another, a theatrical manager in Manchester; a third, a musical composer and conductor of the orchestra of Her Majesty's Opera in London; and the fourth, Chevalier Wyckoff, who had conducted a successful speculation some years previously by visiting America in charge of the celebrated danseuse, Fanny Ellsler.
When the boys reached the deck they saw Wyckoff capering and dancing about on the beach wildly. He was waving his arms in an evident effort to attract attention. A schooner was approaching from the west. "Yacht aho-o-oy!" came a faint hail across the water. Jack at the wheel held a steady course and reached a hand toward the switchboard. His lips were tightly closed.
"Now, Wyckoff," he ordered when the dog had permitted that worthy to regain his feet, "You 'bout face and back to the campfire on the double quick. It's getting toward evening and we can't lay around here all night waiting on you. We want you for a little while yet." Wyckoff's appeals for mercy were piteous.
His rifle fell from his grasp as he tottered backward and lay prostrate beside the spot where also lay the negro that had earlier suffered at his hands. Wyckoff's desperate aim had been true. The knife had sped straight to its mark and buried its point in Lopez's brain. He was beyond all help. But Wyckoff still struggled frantically.
In June, 1913, the Women's Political Union held its first State conference, at which the following officers were elected: President, Mrs. Van Winkle; vice-presidents, Miss Julia S. Hurlbut, Mrs. E. T. Lukens, Mrs. H. R. Reed, Mrs. W. H. Gardner, Miss Edna C. Wyckoff, Mrs. R. T. Newton, Miss Louise Antrim, Mrs.
"I wish to inquire," said he, after courteously saluting the couple, "whether you have any old coins in the house." "No," was the surly response of the farmer, "we don't keep 'em." "But you had quite a collection." "I had 'leven dollars and seventy-five cents' worth, but I paid 'em out this mornin'." "To a boy named Bushrod Wyckoff?" "Yas."
If Aunt Wyckoff was, as I first remember her, scarce more than seventy, say, the thought fills me with one sort of joy, the joy of our modern, our so generally greater and nobler effect of duration: who wouldn't more subtly strive for that effect and, intelligently so striving, reach it better, than such non-questioners of fate? the moral of whose case is surely that if they gave up too soon and too softly we wiser witnesses can reverse the process and fight the whole ground.
"That was the dynamite that Wyckoff planted on the Fortuna in Pascagoula and Jack stumbled over it and brought it here and we planted it a moment ago." "I shouldn't wonder if you're right," agreed Harrison. "It must be that one of the negroes struck it just right with his shovel." "But where are the negroes?" asked Frank. "I can't see a one. How many were there in the first place?"
"My only regret," stated Frank as they were seated about the breakfast table at last, "is that I didn't find you fellows sooner." "The pleasure is mutual, I assure you we assure you," stated Tom. "We've enjoyed your society immensely and hope we'll find your chum shortly. He can't be far away." "Wyckoff wouldn't be so desperate as to do him harm, would he?" queried Harry.
It seemed that the depression into which they looked formed a sort of bowl partly full, like a bowl of porridge, with Wyckoff struggling in it at the side nearest their position. As they looked, the contents of the bowl seemed to heave and boil, then turn over and over. Wyckoff started down more rapidly while the boiling sands at the other side seemed to rise. Tom quickly flung his noose.
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