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"Say, Billy," he cried, "your Ma an' Pa's there." "God love us!" ejaculated Harry, dropping the knife with which he was stirring the potatoes and reaching for the demijohn. "An' fer why should ye be out on that wild goose chase, now?" "Have you seen a letter folded in four lying in the road?" shouted Mr Lawrence..

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"Bother!" Billy's pulses were leaping, his soul singing. He reached down a hand and trustingly she put her's in it. Very soft and cool it felt to Billy's hot palm, as he assisted her from the log. Then side by side they passed down through the long green valley. "Dogs and children," repeated the lawyer. "Dogs and children." He stood looking away through the failing light to where a strip of mauve-lined sky peeked through the heavy tissue of cloud. "Well, 'cause Bill hogs it, that's why," complained Anson. "Last time we had tarts I didn't get none. An' it's the same with pie an' cake." The place which old Harry O'Dule called home was a crumbling log cabin on the shore of Levee Creek, just on the border of the Scroggie bush. Originally it had been built as a shelter for sheep, but with the clearing of the land it had fallen into disuse. O'Dule had found it on one of his pilgrimages and had promptly appropriated it unto himself. Nobody thought of disputing his possession, perhaps because most of the good people of Scotia inwardly feared the old man's uncanny powers of second sight, and the foreshadowing—on those who chose to cross him—of dire evils, some of which had been known to materialize. Old Harry boasted that he was the seventh son of a seventh son..