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As Winwood Reade says, "The typical Negro is a rare variety even among Negroes." As a matter of fact we cannot take such extreme and largely fanciful stock as typifying that which we may fairly call the Negro race. In the case of no other race is so narrow a definition attempted.
"Don't show yourself, Jim! Careful!" Reade warned their guide. "It's all right," declared Ferrers indifferently, as he rose to his full height, then discovered the path by which Tom had descended. "The critters took to cover as soon as they heard me making a noise." With that explanation Ferrers slid rather than walked down into the gully. "Where are the rest of your men?" questioned Mr.
Nicolas entered, an envelope in his hand. "Par-rdon, Senor Reade," begged the Mexican. "I would not interrupt, but on the porch I found thees letter. It is address to you." Tom took the envelope and scanned it, saying: "The address is printed -probably because the writer didn't want to run the risk of having his writing identified. Probably the letter, also, is printed.
"Wait; I'll go back and halt the fellows and bring Dave forward with me." In a few moments this had been done. Darry gazed at the red Smattach with gleaming eyes. "This is surely our chance!" he muttered. "Now, what can we do?" All three were silent for a few moments. Then Tom Reade smote his thigh with one hand. "I have it," he muttered excitedly.
You can easily claim that you engaged with us as a foreman, and that being captain of a motor boat amounts to breach of contract." "I'm not fussing," smiled the foreman. "As long as I can sleep daytimes running this motor boat is easier than working." "It probably will be," nodded Reade, "unless the enemy go in for a new line of tactics." "Such as what, sir?" asked Corbett.
And the other Central Grammar fellows back in Gridley will be so proud of you!" "You don't have to tell 'em," urged Hen Dutcher pleadingly. "No; we don't have to," confirmed Tom Reade. "But we can. And most likely we will. We want to separate the wheat from the chaff at the old Central Gram." "But, please don't tell 'em," whined Hen. "We'll see about that," said Dick Prescott.
"Oh, well, Harry isn't such an infant as to be wiped out all in one moment." "Where is Mr. Hazelton then?" inquired Evarts, as Tom swung the arc of the searchlight in broad curves. "Great Scott! I wish I knew!" gasped Reade, his perplexity and his anxiety growing with every second. "There appears to be no one on top of the wall."
On the next day, after taking a plaster cast of the face of Napoleon, Antommarchi proceeded to open the body in the presence of Sir Thomas Reade, some staff officers, and eight medical men. He had grown considerably thinner in person during the last few months. After his death his face and body were pale, but without alteration or anything of a cadaverous appearance.
It was thus that he broke in upon Reade. Reade had passed an absurdly useless afternoon. He had not stirred from the study. For all that it would have mattered to him, it might have been raining hard the whole afternoon, instead of being, as it had been, the finest afternoon of the whole term.
As if by instinct his right hand dropped to the butt of a revolver swinging in a holster over his right hip. "I hope he isn't bad tempered today!" shivered Harry under his breath. "I beg your pardon, sir," galled Tom, "but can you tell us " "Who are ye looking at?" demanded Bad Pete, scowling. "At a polished man of the world, I'm sure," replied Reade smilingly.
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