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"The little place up the river where a queer, half-crazy woman lives alone with a fierce dog?" he asked. "Yes, you never heard anything more?" Dennie queried. "Only that the house is hidden from the road and has many pigeons about it, and that the woman sees few callers. I've never located the place. Tell me about it," he replied. "Bug Buler and I were up there after eggs this morning.
She'd have decorated old Bond Saxon just the same if he had waddled across the last goal line then. You're a plug and she's a lady born, and as good as engaged to Burgess besides. I had that straight from Dennie Saxon, and you know Dennie's no gossip. They were far gone before they came West the Wream-Burgess folk were stiffen up, Burleigh. You look like a dead man."
Marian ever since she came here. She seems like an innocent outcast." "That is very pitiful." Lloyd Fenneben's voice was sympathetic. "This morning," continued Dennie, "Bug was playing with the dog outside, and I went into the house for the first time. Mrs. Marian is very pleasant. She asked me about my work here and I told her about Sunrise and you, and your niece, Miss Elinor, being here."
The prescribed tactics were to march straight on the enemy, with which Monteath and Havelock complied; but Dennie, whether with or without orders is a matter in dispute, diverged to assail the 'patched up' fort. The outer defences were carried, gallant old Dennie riding at the head of his men to receive his death wound.
But even as he remembered, a cry up stream came faintly, once and no more, while, grappling still, two forms were borne down by the swift current to the bend above the whirlpool. Dennie and Vincent sprang to the very edge of the bluff, powerless to save, as Tom Gresh and Bond Saxon were swept around the curve below the Corral.
Many a man of the pen, in admiration of the iron will of this first American novelist, finds a delight in thinking of him and in following his footsteps along Pine Street and the lower end of Broadway to the Battery. In the days of bereavement following the death of Dr. Smith, the companion of Brown's solitude was Joseph Dennie.
Half-consciously, he remembered the same outline of rippling hair, as it had looked in the glow of the October camp fire down in the Kickapoo Corral when she was telling the old legend of Swift Elk and The Fawn of the Morning Light. She smiled up at him consolingly. Dennie was level-headed, and life was always worth living where she was. "I'll be your rain beau."
"I can climb where you can, Victor," Elinor declared. "Dennie will never want to come here again. Poor Dennie!" Vic was helping Elinor across the shallows as he spoke. Up in the Corral a happy crowd of young people were finishing their last "picnic spread" for the year. Below the shallows the whirlpool was glistening all treacherously smooth and level under the moonbeams.
Greyle, to report all this to Sir Cresswell Oliver and Mr. Petherton? They ought to know." "I'm going, too," declared Copplestone, also rising. "Mrs. Greyle, I'm sure will entrust the whole matter to us. And Mr. Dennie will trust us with those papers." "Oh, certainly, certainly!" asserted Mr. Dennie, pushing his packet across the table.
Dennie told me when you had that awful fight, and Trenchie told me long ago, that you thought I must have money to make me happy. Why I, more than Dennie, or you, who gave Bug his claim?" Elinor put up her hands to Victor, who took them both in his, as he drew her to him and kissed her sweet red lips.
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