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October's second morning dawned sullen and grey, with a chill wind banking slate-hued clouds in the sky. Deacon Ringold, taking the short cut across the stubble-fields to Wilson's, shivered as he glanced back at the black lines his feet had cut through the crisp white frost, and decided to put on his woolen underclothes right away. The deacon had important and disturbing news to convey to his neighbor and had started out early to seek his counsel. "It's Croaker," Billy whispered. "Stand right still, Lou, an' we'll watch an' find out what his game is." Billy led him outside and turned the light of the lantern full on his face. "Harry," he said, sternly, "where are you gettin' all this whisky?".
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Conrad
"Oh!" she cried commiseratingly. She came closer to him—so close that her very nearness made him dizzy with joy. With a tiny handkerchief she wiped the perspiration from his forehead. To this Mr. Johnston made no audible reply. He simply nodded, waiting with suspended fork, for his narrator to resume. "Listen!" he said harshly. "You know me and you know I don't often give a man like you more than a second chance. You have had your second chance and failed. But see here, I'm not infallible. If dogs and children trust you there must be some good in you, and by George! I'm going to do something which is either going to prove the biggest piece of damn foolishness or the biggest coup I have ever pulled off in my life. I'm going to take my grip from your throat, Jacobs, and leave you to the dogs and the children. "Don't you have nuthin' to do with it, Ma!" he cried. "That Croaker's a witch crow, that's what he is! He's tryin' to tempt you with gold!".
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