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Updated: June 2, 2025
Planting himself before her, he shook a finger close to her face. "So th' Kunnel's tryin' t' skeer us, is he?" he demanded. "Tryin' t' git us t' come in an' leave th' Ben'. Wal! ain't we right under his nose? Kain't he watch out fer us? W'at's he here fer? W'at's he paid fer?" Then, riding in on the tide of his wrath, came dark suspicion. "An' w'at's he so crazy t' git us away fer?" he queried.
Anyhow I put it on, an' he looked at me so earnest an' ses with a sigh, `Betsy, ses he, `it minds me o' my grandmother, an' she was a good old soul brought me up, Betsy, she did. Wear it for her sake an' mine. I make a present of it to you." "Ah! Betsy," said Marie, "the Reverend Gubbins must be a wag, I suspect." "W'at's a wag, Marie?" "Don't you know what a wag is?" "Oh, yis, I know.
As they approached this structure, which was sufficiently forbidding in appearance to depress the most lighthearted, the strumming of a banjo became audible, accompanying a mellow Negro voice which was singing, to a very ragged ragtime air, words of which the burden was something like this: "W'at's de use er my wo'kin' so hahd? I got a' 'oman in de white man's yahd.
Ol' Cap'n Wegg wasn't no farmer. He were a sea-cap'n; so it's no wonder he got took in when he bought the place." Uncle John sighed. "I've just bought it myself," he observed. "There's a ol' addige," said the man, grinning, "'bout a fool an' his money. The house is a hunker; but w'at's the use of a house without a farm?" "What is a 'hunker, please?" inquired Louise, curiously.
"Oh, my buzzum!" exclaimed Tom, laying his hand on his breast; "you've a'most bu'st me, sir. W'at's wrong, sir?" "Go for the doctor, Tom, quick! run like the wind. Take the freshest horse; fly, Tom, Charley's poisoned laudanum; quick!"
"De nigger dat ain't hope up 'longer high feedin' ain't got no grip. But up yer whar fokes is gotter scramble 'roun' an' make der own livin', de vittles w'at's kumerlated widout enny sweatin' mos' allers gener'ly b'longs ter some yuther man by rights. One hoe- cake an' a rasher er middlin' meat las's me fum Sunday ter Sunday, an' I'm in a mighty big streak er luck w'en I gits dat."
"Ah, say," says I, "w'at's the use stringin' out the agony? Benny's squealed, ain't he?" "No," says Mr. Robert. "That's the point. Benny hasn't. All I've been able to get out of him is that a short time ago he met a very charming young woman in my car." "That's right," says I. "It was me put her in." "Ah!" says Mr. Robert. "Now we're getting somewhere." "Oh, you've hit the trail," says I.
There was a brisk step, a rap, and a young fellow stood in the open door. "Say, Serg," he began. The Sergeant reached with his left hand for the inkstand, while his right clutched the ruler. He never took his eyes off the stranger. "Say," wheedled he, glancing around and seeing no trap, "Serg, I say: that woman w'at's locked up, she's "
He had folded the letter and laid it down, and had picked up a newspaper, when Peter returned with the cigars and a box of matches. "Mars Henry?" he asked, "w'at's gone wid de chile?" "Phil?" replied the colonel, looking toward the step, from which the boy had disappeared. "I suppose he went round the house." "Mars Phil! O Mars Phil!" called the old man. There was no reply.
He's in a game that we don't know nothin' about, an' he's got cards up his sleeve clear to th' elbow. Th' people in that house is his friends, an' he's safe, so w'at's th' use? I've got th' joint spotted an' he don't know I am nex'. It's a point in our favor. There wuz a woman opened the door, so she's in th' game, too. Let's lay low, Mr. Quentin, an' take it cool."
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