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“La now! An’ why do you say that, my dear?” inquired Mrs. Wopp. “Set up straight, Moses, yer back looks like you was packin’ a sack of pertaters.” “We’ll play there’s a strike in the saw-mills, Dutchy, and this is scab labor,” Billy excused amiably. And for a fact the white cotton string carried the messages quite safely from the “Front,” where Jimmy and George laid out the “line” over wonderful grades, across impossible gorges; and “wired” back for further orders. Harry Potter was the operator at the “Front,” and Vilette,—“Women do operate, you know,” she said,—Vilette was the proud holder of “the key” at Headquarters, where Clarence Hammond strutted around as Messenger; and because he was the “son of the Boss,” bullied his Cousin Harry unmercifully. “Don’t nobody start ‘Greenland Icy Mountings’ round here,” objected Moses. “I got orl the cool drarfts I need comin’ through this here hole in my shirt.”.
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Conrad
“No worse ’n you, I reckon,” was the rueful response. Billy’s appearance justified Jimmy’s speech; for freckles were standing out large and ghastly from one or two very white spots on the younger boy’s battered face. “Can you get home alone?” Guinea pigs, pigeons, and other and larger live stock, normal or otherwise, masqueraded as marvellous creatures from foreign lands. “Alone, mamma said,” came the second voice. “Yeh,” scoffed Moses, “this here turnin’ machines every Monday makes me sick. I aint got no liver left to be cheerful.”.
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