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“Why, some were half-rotten or all rotten, and a good many were bruised”— The excitement was too much for Bob. To stay still while serious events might be happening was not what he had bargained for and as soon as Feather-in-the-Wind was out of sight in the underbrush, he too started off, using the same manner of locomotion. Feather-in-the-Wind! Perhaps the Indian would miss him and sound the alarm? Besides, Bob had asked him to look out for trouble with the Mexicans and perhaps, just perhaps, he might tell Mr. Whitney..

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The following night, just as Bob was about to turn in, Ted Hoyt knocked at his door. Evidently Ted had come in a hurry, for he was covered with dust and was breathing hard. Mr. Hazard was as good as his word. The same night found him installed in the colonial house from which the great plantation of Crossways had formerly been managed. Now the plantation was a thing of memory only. Only the house and comparatively few cultivated acres remained of the once proud estate. Edward Moseley, the last of a long line, kept a school, which, primarily started for the benefit of his tenants’ children, had become so famous that boys from all parts of the country were now enrolled. “John!” screamed Mother, starting up. “Oh, Johnny! my boy, my boy! Is it really you?” Sorrows, begone!.