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And now as Billy carried him towards the root-house he recited the various adventures which had been his since they had parted, recited them, it is true, in hoarse unintelligible crow-language, but which Billy was careful to indicate he understood right well. "Yes ma'am. I guess she'll never be able to use it ag'in." "Yes, it is," cried Greyquill. "For people like you who can't get on ought to get out.".

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Billy spent the days preceding the reopening of the Valley School much as a criminal awaiting execution might spend his last hours of life. The fact that Trigger Finger Tim had always accepted the inevitable sentence of fate with calm and undaunted spirit was the one buoy to which he might cling in a turbulent sea of uncertainty. There had been so much to do; so little had been done. The hiding place of old Scroggie's will was still a secret; no check had been put upon the preparations of the interloper who claimed to be the heir of the Scroggie estate; the mystery surrounding the store robbery remained a mystery; his friend Frank Stanhope was growing thin and pale from secret suffering. And on Monday morning the Valley School would open! "Your other hand," commanded Mr. Johnston. Hinter knit his brows. "I'm afraid they are," he answered. "But my friends are their friends, you see. There is only one other person besides yourself and myself who can do what you are doing now, though." Mr Greyquill entered the room by two paces, and placing his hand upon the spot where he supposed his heart to lie, made three separate bows to the company, each of the "Your most humble and obedient servant" school; it was an expression of ceremony which for mingled respect and senility should have pleased, as it no doubt did please, Miss Acton..