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Updated: June 9, 2025
Folliott, whom he had last seen, six months before, in London, and who had spoken to him then, precisely, of Phil Bloodgood, for several years previous her confidential American agent and factotum too, as she might say, but at that time so little in her good books, for the extraordinary things he seemed to be doing, that she was just hurrying home, she had made no scruple of mentioning, to take everything out of his hands.
Thomas Pownal was comparatively a stranger in the neighborhood, only two or three months having elapsed since he had been sent by the mercantile firm of Bloodgood, Pownal, & Co., of New York, to take charge of a branch of their business at Hillsdale.
"Oh, I've seen lots of people just like him," grunted Browning, getting out a pipe and lighting it. "Don't smoke, Bruce!" groaned Rattleton, as the steamer gave an unusually heavy roll. "I'm sick enough now. That will make me worse." "Oh, we'll open the port." "Open the port!" laughed Frank. "And we just told Bloodgood we did not drink."
The Frenchman permitted a sneer to steal across his face, while Frank looked at him steadily till his eyes dropped. At a glance, Merry saw that Bloodgood was "shakey." The fellow had been growing worse and worse as the voyage progressed, and now he seemed on the verge of a break-down.
A. Reeves Jackson, of Chicago; the poet Lariat was Bloodgood H. Cutter, an eccentric from Long Island; "Jack" was Jack Van Nostrand, of New Jersey; and "Moult" and "Blucher" and "Charlie" were likewise real, the last named being Charles J. Langdon, of Elmira, N. Y., a boy of eighteen, whose sister would one day become Mark Twain's wife.
The game was held up for a few moments. He stepped into the next room and returned with a fresh supply. "This is the bottom," he declared. "You people may have them as soon as you like. To blazes with them! Let's lift the limit." "Ah er let's throw it off entirely," suggested Mr. Slush. Bloodgood glared at the little man in astonishment. "What?" he cried. "You propose that?
I've seen you fellows together, and you seem like a jolly lot. Heard you singing, you know. Great voices good singing." Then he stopped speaking, and they stared at him, wondering what he was driving at. For a moment there was an awkward pause, and then Bloodgood went on: "I was up pretty late last night, you know. Had a little game in the smoking-room.
Bloodgood." "Yes." "I I have taken an interest in Mr. Bloodgood. I I think he is a rather nice young man." "I don't admire your taste," came from Jack. "Eh? I don't know him very well. You understand. Met him in the smoking-room. Sometimes I er play cards for amusement. Met him that way." "Does he play for amusement?" asked Frank. "Oh, yes ah of course. That is he he likes a little stake."
The men who hoisted were exposed, and one of them was wounded in the shoulder. He was Peter Bromley, who drove oxen for the Bloodgood wagon, and he was engaged to marry Jane Bloodgood. She jumped out of the rifle pit and ran right to him while the bullets were flying and led him back into shelter.
"Say, Frank!" panted Jack; "open the door and let me " But Frank checked the hot-headed youth again. "Steady, Jack! It is not necessary. He will go directly. Mr. Bloodgood, you speak as if it were a disgrace to belong to the Y.M.C.A. That shows your ignorance and narrowness.
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