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Updated: June 10, 2025
On this very evening, and perhaps at the very time when Gashford kept his solitary watch, old John was so red in the face with perpetually shaking his head in contradiction of his three ancient cronies and pot companions, that he was quite a phenomenon to behold, and lighted up the Maypole Porch wherein they sat together, like a monstrous carbuncle in a fairy tale.
"You make noise enough when you're at home. I've heard you often, way across the cornfield." Mr. Crow cawed so angrily that a dozen of his cronies flew over from the woods to see what was going on. And the whole thirteen made such an uproar that Farmer Green couldn't help noticing them. He and Johnnie were in the orchard, hunting for Grunty Pig.
The gossips of the neighborhood might be seen popping their night-caps out at every window, watching the crazy vehicles rumble by; and there was a knot of virulent old cronies that kept a look-out from a house just opposite the retired butcher's and scanned and criticised every one that knocked at the door.
I never had but one scholar among all my cronies and intimates." "And who was he, Greenly? You shouldn't despise knowledge, because you don't understand it. I dare say your intimate was none the worse for a little Latin enough to go through nullus, nulla, nullum, for instance. Who was this intimate, Greenly?" "John Bluewater handsome Jack, as he was called; the younger brother of the admiral.
Here he may many a time have sat when a boy, watching the slowly revolving spit with all the longing of an urchin, or of an evening listening to the cronies and gossips of Stratford dealing forth churchyard tales and legendary anecdotes of the troublesome times of England.
It was not Andy, however, as Tom saw a little later, as a man passed him in a big touring car. Andy Foger, as my readers will recollect, was a red-haired, squinty-eyed lad with plenty of money and not much else. He and his cronies, including Sam Snedecker, nearly ran Tom down one day, when the latter was on his bicycle, as told in the first volume of this series.
So all that was left to the two cronies was to sit night after night, talking to each other in the hot hope that Miss Fountain might be reached thereby and strengthened that even Mrs. Fountain and that distant black brood of Bannisdale might in some indirect way be brought within the saving-power of the Gospel. Strange fragments of this talk floated through the kitchen.
"Three of them." "Oh, say, do you think they can be Sol Blugg and his two cronies?" burst out Phil. "Maybe," answered Roger. "I can't make them out from this distance." "Let me take a look," suggested Tom Dillon, and adjusted the glasses to his eyes. "You are right they are three men on horses. But who they are I don't know. Plenty o' miners travel this trail at one time or another."
"Fery likely," and on the strength of that opinion Ian drew a flask from his pocket, and the two cronies had what the groom called a "tram" together. Farther up the steep road they overtook John Barret and Giles Jackman, who saluted them with pleasant platitudes about the weather as they passed.
Archie and Charlie, evidently great cronies, were pacing up and down, shoulder to shoulder, whistling "Bonnie Dundee"; Mac was reading in a corner, with his book close to his near-sighted eyes; Dandy was arranging his hair before the oval glass in the hat-stand; Geordie and Will investigating the internal economy of the moon-faced clock; and Jamie lay kicking up his heels on the mat at the foot of the stairs, bent on demanding his sweeties the instant Rose appeared.
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