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“No, no! Don’t, mother! I’ll run away! I’ll—” He groaned and left his sentence unfinished. The strains of “Red Wing” having died away, Mrs. Wopp busied herself setting up the crokinole board. “Me and Par won’t play, jist the young folks,” she announced. “Billy, I don’t like the look of your eyes; you’re reading too much at night,” his mother said one evening when he was helping with the dishes. “You must go to bed earlier.”.

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“Mamma, Pretty’s finishing the lawn for me; can’t I rub the floors right now? The Gang’s coming and we want to do a lot to-day.” Next followed a buckboard gaily painted red. Mrs. Mifsud and her daughter Maria aged fourteen who had taken a “quarter” of music lessons and was now the organist of the church, were occupants. Between them was wedged the pet of the family St. Elmo Mifsud a child of four. St. Elmo wore long chestnut curls and an angelic expression. Clarence Egerton Crump, Mrs. Mifsud’s nephew who was visiting his aunt and cousins, accompanied the family on his wheel. “The child may eclipse you in refining Billy’s language,” Mrs. Bennett said, with a smile, aside to Edith; and went into the kitchen to “dish up” the dinner. “I knew it!” Billy panted feverishly. “The Ha’nt!” Heedless of the dog running with his nose close to the ground, Billy rushed on. His shirt was torn, his trousers hanging by one suspender, his shoes cut and one tap turned back. Ashes whitened his hair; though at the back a dark mat was still damp from oozing blood,—the handkerchief that had bound it had been torn off by a twitching twig. His smarting eyes watered so that he could hardly see his way. Yet of all this he was unconscious. Weariness, pain, his cracked and bleeding lips,—he knew nothing of them, felt nothing..