Billy ran off full of vague expectation born of his mother’s smile. No one in all the country round, not even Harold Prettyman, whose father had the finest farm in Vine County, had such a splendid place to play as the Bennetts’ back lot that sloped down to Runa Creek. As Billy slammed the gate and bounded out on a huge boulder that hung over the creek, a sounding cheer greeted him from below.,
“That big sand pile the kids made last week for a fort can be the Sierras, and we’ll tunnel, and have a loop, and—”,
“This here thing looks like a mule with his ribs druv in an’ stan’in’ on his haunches. What d’ye call it?”.
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