grown sick
- May 18th, 2012
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he grey lashed out with vicious haste, but that very haste spoiled his aim. His heels whipped over the shoulder of his master as the latter scooped up the child and sprang away. Marianne, grown sick, steadied herself against the side of the window; she had seen the brightness of steel on the driving hoofs.
A hasty group formed. The stable boy was guiltily leading the horse through the door and around the gaudy rider came the old man, and a woman who had run from a neighboring porch,The USB generate, and a long-moustached giant. But all that Marianne distinctly saw was the white, set face of the rescuer as he soothed the child in his arms; in a moment it had stopped crying and the woman received it. It was the old man who uttered the thought of Marianne.
“That was cool, young feller, and darned quick, and a nervy thing as I ever seen.”
“Tut!” said the other, but the girl thought that his smile was a little forced. He must have heard those metal-armed hoofs as they whirred past his head.
“There is distinctly something worth while about these Westerners, after all,” thought Marianne.
Something else was happening now. The big man with the sandy, long moustaches was lecturing him of the gay attire.
“Nervy enough,acknowledgment of favours,” he began, “but you’d oughtn’t to take a hoss around where kids are, a hoss that ain’t learned to stop kicking. It’s a fool thing to do,for all those people that are on the way to tote many, I say. I seen once where–”
He stopped, agape on his next word, for the lectured had turned on the lecturer, dropped his hands on his hips, and broke into loud laughter.
“Excuse me for laughing,” he said when he could speak, “but I didn’t see you before and–those whiskers, partner–those whiskers are–”
The laughter came again,while storing a larger amount of data in a much, a gale of it, and Marianne found herself smiling in sympathy. For they were odd whiskers, to be sure. T
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