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During the closing hymn Billy managed to evade the eyes of his elders long enough to slip outside. He wanted to be alone—alone to ponder over this great and wonderful thing that had come into his life. It was love—yes it certainly was love, strong worshipful love such as comes to but few, and to those few only once. Such love had made Trigger Finger Tim leap a fifty-foot chasm, swim a swift, ice-encumbered river and fight single-handed a band of painted savages to free his sweetheart from their murderous clutches. Billy knew that he would do as much for her! "He went back and got it," said the girl, in answer to Billy's look of amazement. "And, Billy, he flew away in an awful grouch." "Is it?" The woman started on again, then halted abruptly. "Well, it's queer how much his voice is like Willium's crow. Can't you hear him mutterin' and croakin'?".
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Conrad
Mr. Johnston smiled. "Very well. The girl with the handkerchief to her eyes, the one dressed in white and blue, five seats down, will come forward for punishment." LaRose had crawled to shore and sat dripping and sniffling on the bank. "No, never mind. I bribed Anse to watch that gap fer me." Down through the night-enshrouded woods the boys made their way noiselessly, Billy leading, Walter Watland, nicknamed Fatty on account of his size, close behind him and Maurice Keeler, Billy's sworn chum and confidant, bringing up the rear. Occasionally a soft-winged owl fluttered up from its kill, with a muffled "who-who." Once a heavy object plunged from the trail with a snort, and the boys felt the flesh along their spines creeping. They kept on without so much as a word, crossing a swift creek on a fallen tree, holding to its bank and making a detour into the woods to avoid passing close to a dilapidated log cabin which in the moonlight bore evidence of having fallen into disuse. As they skirted the heavy thicket of pines, which even in the summer night's stillness sighed low and mournfully, the leader halted suddenly and a low exclamation fell from his lips..
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