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"Why he's callin' us all the mean things he knows, I guess," laughed Billy. "We're in his way, you see.",Half way down the long pond he drew into shore and, pulling the punt after him through the tall rushes, made the portage across to the inner slough. It was a long, hard pull, but the track he laid would make the return portage much easier.,He bade her good-morning with profound respect. Her dog barked in his face, and she silenced it by lifting it under her arm.,Mrs. Wilson remained thoughtful. Billy, watching her with furtive speculation, hoped from the relaxing lines in her brow that all was well with the world once more. Hope became an assurance with her next words.,"Frank told Mr. Reddick, the preacher who came to bury old Scroggie, all that had passed between him an' the dead man but although they hunted high an' low fer the will, they never found it. Nor did they find any of the money the ol' miser must have left behind—not a solitary cent. That was over a year ago, an' they haven't found money or will yet. But this goes to show what a real feller Frank Stanhope is. He put a fine grave stone up for ol' Scroggie an' had his name engraved on it. Yes he done that, an' all he ever got from the dead man was his curses.,And thus speaking she turned to the bulkhead, and putting her arm against it buried her face in her sleeve, and fell to sobbing so piteously that you would have thought her poor little heart was broken.,"But think of what it means to him," urged Billy. "Besides, Harry, I've got a charm that'll keep ol' Scroggie's ghost away," he added, eagerly.,"Something at sea must be left to chance," said Captain Acton a little impatiently. "Since you cannot be ready before Saturday Sir William and I will have time to weigh your conjectures and views. I shall be down early to-morrow morning, and hope to find that you have made a fresh and vigorous start in getting the vessel ready for sea.",Av the gurril ye loved on the Isle 'cross the sea—,The man with the brown wig peered with his head on one side at Mr Lawrence, as though Mr Short's toast conveyed a piece of news to him.,Maurice Keeler, wan, hollow-eyed, and miserable, was seated on a stool just outside the door in the early morning sunlight. Near him sat his mother, peeling potatoes, her portly form obscured by a trailing wistaria vine. What Maurice had endured during his two weeks with the measles nobody knew but himself. His days had been lonely, filled with remorse that he had ever been born to give people trouble and care; his nights longer even than the days. Hideous nightmares had robbed him of slumber. Old Scroggie's ghost had visited him almost nightly. The Twin Oaks robbers, ugly, hairy giants armed with red-hot pitch-forks, had bound him to a tree and applied fire to his feet. What use to struggle or cry aloud for help? Even Billy, his dearest chum, had sat and laughed with all the mouths of his eight heads at his pain. Of course he had awakened to learn these were but dreams; but to a boy dreams are closely akin to reality.,"Och, it's a brave lad ye are, Billy bye," Harry wheezed, "an' a brave liar, too. Go on wid yer nonsense, now.".