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"What have you to do," said Captain Acton, "that we should wait until Saturday?" Mr Lawrence repeated his first question. That night the fishermen of Sandtown were caught red-handed, stealing Deacon Ringold's harvest apples. Like hungry ants scenting sugar they descended upon that orchard, en masse, at exactly ten-thirty o'clock. By ten-forty they had done more damage to the hanging fruit than a wind storm could do in an hour and at ten-forty-five they were pounced upon by the angry deacon and his neighbors and given the lecture of their lives. In vain they pleaded that it was all a mistake, that they had been sent an invitation via a small boy, from the deacon himself..
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Conrad
Wilson lit his pipe and with arms folded on the top rail of the barnyard fence gazed down across the partially-cleared, fire-dotted sweep to where, a mile distant, a long, densely timbered point of land stood darkly silhouetted against the sheen of a rising moon. Billy had to stifle his emotion and swallow twice before he answered: "That's what I'd like you to call me. I'll bet you can't say it, though." This letter was unsigned. It was manifestly a rough draft of the posted letter which had been amplified before it was sent. Captain Acton's hand dropped with it on to his knee. He exclaimed: "I was sent down here to give you a message, Mr. Shipley," said Billy..
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