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It was Saturday afternoon on a busy street in the city. Moses Wopp and Clarence Crump, at whose home the former was spending the week end, were on their way to the skating-rink. If they had wanted to skate there, the streets would have accommodated them with a sufficiently smooth surface, as an early frost had rimed the pavement. “Poor little Billy! You’ve had a hard night of it.” “Let me go, please!” he pleaded. “There’s a little girl, our refugee, over there, fainted, I think, perhaps—dead.”.
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kez_ h (Kez_h)
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Conrad
“How do you know?” “Golly! They’re working all night. I—ought to—help—to-morrow. I—” He slept again with his good resolution half made. “First they feed the cow a barrel of sugar, then they freeze her, after that milk her; and there you have your ice cream.” According to plan, Billy’s mother had called and detained him while the score of laughing youngsters gathered and stood silently around the table. When he was running across the lawn again, his face washed and hair combed, matters he thought might well have been omitted when time was so precious, he was struck by the strange stillness. What had happened to stop every tongue at once? He ran on faster, through the trellis gate, and halted, transfixed. A shout greeted him. Each one waved a small flag, and sang lustily—.
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