"It's right true ye spake," nodded Harry. "An' mebbe sooner than we think. An' ut's the young t'acher wid the blindness that gets it all, ye say?",
Billy tried to say something. His lips moved dumbly. Moisture gathered between his shoulder blades, condensed as it met cold fear, and trickled in tiny rivulets down his shivering spine.,
Billy took the Indian turnip from his chum and with his knife scraped off a portion of white, pungent pulp. "Now then, put this on the back of your tongue, an' leave it there," he directed..
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