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Updated: August 20, 2024
The vanquished, not daring to refuse, pocketed the coin, and slunk away amid the jeers of a score of villagers who had been drawn to the scene. In all human probability the late omission of the shaking of Sim's and Marann's hands was compensated at their parting that afternoon. I am more confident on this point because at the end of the year those hands were joined inseparably by the preacher.
Stan began cleaning up their room so that the guards checking rooms that night would not notice Sim had gone. He wanted to give Sim as much of a start as possible. While he was brushing the straw under Sim's bunk the door opened. Both boys turned quickly. In the doorway stood Sim. His lips were parted in a thin smile. "Sim!" Stan took a step toward the door. "We thought you had gone."
"The same people that burned out Sim Gage and Wid Gardner. All of 'em had cleared out but that one." "How about that woman, Nels?" "We brung her down with us. She'd spent the night in the woods alone. Doctor's got her in bed over at Sim's place now." He turned his heavy face upon her frowningly, apparently passing upon some question they earlier had discussed.
But they saw that now, on these mountain slopes before them, one of the most valuable timber bodies in the state was passing into destruction. "God damn their souls!" said Wid Gardner fervently. "Wasn't it enough what they done to us already?" "Go on, Doc." It was Sim's voice. Wid Gardner knew perfectly well what drove Sim Gage on. But the car soon came to a sudden halt.
That it was a fly-trap one big sage-looking insect seemed certain, for he settled on the tip of Private Sim's nose, and seemed to be engaged in making sudden flights and buzzings at young unwary flies as they came near and into danger, driving them away from the yawning cavern just below. Gray smiled to himself as these ideas flashed across his brain, and then he walked up to the sergeant.
There are bounds to human endurance. So thought Sim Tappertit when Gabriel drew those rosy lips to his those lips within Sim's reach from day to day, and yet so far off. He had a respect for his master, but he wished the Yorkshire cake might choke him. 'Father, said the locksmith's daughter, when this salute was over, and they took their seats at table, 'what is this I hear about last night?
"Nothing's too low down for him," said Wid Gardner. There were footprints in the path where the neighbors had stood, but Sim's eye caught others not trampled out, in the strip of sand toward the willows two footprints, large, and beside them two others, small. The two, old big-game hunters as they were, began to puzzle out this double trail.
No one to meet her. Wonder if Sim's sick again. I'll call up pretty soon. Wimble Horn's been to Chicago again, evidently. Wonder if he'll dump his last eighty acres into the Board of Trade. Who's the fine-looking duck in the fur-lined coat? Not a transient, evidently. He passed Josh by. Must be visiting somebody. Yes; Mrs. Ackley's kissing him.
On the pools of the limpid stream the trout left wrinkles and circles at midday now, as they rose to feed upon the insects swarming in the warmth of the oncoming sun. On this particular morning Wid Gardner turned down the practically untrod lane along Sim's wire fence. Now and again he glanced at something which he held in his hand.
"Now that you mention it, Sim never told us anything," Stan said. "Probably didn't know anything," O'Malley growled. They sat looking at each other, waiting, trying to discover some lead that might help them. Finally Stan said: "We'll have to clean up that straw and fix Sim's bed before anyone comes in here snooping around." "Yeah," O'Malley said but he did not move.
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