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Updated: June 25, 2025
When a dance record was put on the machine the clatter of boots on the piazza betrayed more than one pair of punchers solemnly dancing together. "Though," complained Rhoda's father, "those spurs the boys wear will be the ruination of my hardwood floor. Where do they think they are? At a regular honky-tonk? None of 'em's got right good sense."
"Cap'ain Polkington?" she said, in answer to Rawson-Clew's inquiry. "I don't know whether he's in or not; you'd better go up and see; one of 'em's there, anyhow." She stood back against the wall, and Rawson-Clew came in. "Up-stairs," she said; "second door you come to."
"There are a hundred and six volumes now," announced the proud owner of such a library. "I lend 'em all I can, or most of them would look better. I have had to wait a good while for some, and some weren't what I expected 'em to be, but most of 'em's as good books as there is in the world.
Just you gimme the hundred dollars and I don't want no di'monds." "All right. But I bet you I ain't going to throw off on di'monds. Some of 'em's worth twenty dollars apiece there ain't any, hardly, but's worth six bits or a dollar." "No! Is that so?" "Cert'nly anybody'll tell you so. Hain't you ever seen one, Huck?" "Not as I remember." "Oh, kings have slathers of them."
I can see that Bloojacket regyards old Hardrobe like he's the No'th Star; an' as for Hardrobe himse'f, he can't keep his eyes off that child of his. You'd have had his life long before he'd let you touch a braid of Bloojacket's long ha'r. Both of 'em's plenty handsome for Injuns; tall an' lean an' quick as coyotes, with hands an' feet as little as a woman's.
The invalid gave a little, choking cough, and looked out across the valley. A red spot was moving through the stubble toward the house. He put up his hot hand and laid it on Em's cold fingers. "Mother tried to fool me about the money," he said feebly, "but I think I know where she got it. I don't mean to forget it either, Em. I'll pay it back just as soon as I get up." "Yes, Ben."
Many accept the slips we offer, and gradually as the throng separates to make way, we gain the further end of the apartment. Em's serious, sweet, saint-like face I follow like a star. All sense of fear slips from me, and a great pity fills my soul as I look upon the various types of wretchedness. As the night wears on, the whole apartment seems to wake up.
I don't know how the farmers about here could make a do of it if we didn't pay rates to keep their labourers from dying off. My boys get fed up. Off they go, 'nd I doan' blame 'em. One of 'em's in a racin' stable now, doin' well. Another's got a potman's job London somewhere. Doin' well. But the kid I've got now, he'll stop. No ginger in that boy. Can't see anything five minutes off, either.
"Why, they took the coal, and one of 'em's swallowed it, Mas'r Harry," cried Tom excitedly. "No, Tom: I think I can see it right down below there," I said; "but they did have a try at it." "What are you young fellows doing there?" said a voice; and, as we turned sharply round, there stood the captain. "What! are you fishing?"
Two dead this mornin'. Four more oughten be dead by let's see why, time's up now! t'houten be dead now! By how's that? You aint foolin', hey? Big fine fur foolin' the wagon man, you know. Now say, if any on 'em's near gone it'll do, you know. Save me bother, an' you too, don't you see?
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