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Croaker, mincing in and out among the rag-weeds, led straight across the yard to a tiny ramshackle building which at one time might have been a root-house. Billy, feeling that at any moment an icy hand might reach out and grip his windpipe, followed. It was a terrible risk he was running but the prize was worth it. His feet seemed weighted with lead. At last he reached the root-house and leaned against it, dizzy and panting. Then he looked about for Croaker. The crow had vanished! That night, after separating from Maurice, Billy went over to the Stanhope cottage. It was late but Frank Stanhope was standing beside the white gate, his arms folded on its top, his chin upon them. "No. It's a couple of boring rigs, Billy. Mr. Scroggie is going to earn the good will of all of us here by boring for water and giving us fine wells on our farms. Don't you think that is mighty good of him?".

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"You'll find onions and savory hangin' to the rafters upstairs," suggested her father as he carried the ducks outside. "There should be plenty to be done," said she. "There is the Army." "What you want'a do, Croaker?" he asked, stroking the bird's neck feathers smooth. "Would not you like to take a trip to the West Indies in your father's ship, Miss?" said the Reverend James Prettyman, who had[Pg 160] been headmaster at a fashionable school for young gentlemen for many years past in a city about twenty miles distant from Old Harbour Town..