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“You don’t mean to go through it, do you?” said Jerry, startled out of his usual calm manner by the way in which the other boy had spoken. He made tracks for a dinky engine that was hitched to a load of empties. The sweeping ruin settles o'er the land,.

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Bob paid no attention to this outburst, letting it go past his ears. Wesley’s voice from behind took up the refrain. This boat that he was making was going to be a fine one—Johnny Blossom held it out and peered sharply at it, first lengthwise, then sidewise—the finest boat any one had ever whittled. Every one who saw it would say, “Who made that beautiful, graceful boat?” Well, here was the boy who could do it! Poor Uncle Isaac! He was sick now again—worse, in fact. He had heart disease, Mother said. Jeremias the wood-cutter also talked of a pain in his heart, but since he had begun to rub himself all over with kerosene, he had become much better. It smelled dreadfully in Jeremias’s little hut, but he was better. Johnny Blossom would certainly write to Uncle Isaac and tell him that all he had to do to cure himself of the pain was to rub himself with kerosene. “Well, Bob,” remarked Mr. Hazard when the tale was done, “you certainly had a better time here than you would have had if you had gone to Russia with me!”.