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But Stanhope shook his head. "Not yet, Billy. Wait until you've eaten. You're hungry—as all hunters are bound to be. There now," as his housekeeper brought in the meat and potatoes, "sit down and eat—and eat fast, because I can't keep my good news back much longer.",

"I knowed it," whispered the man, softly. "I knowed the old songs would come back ag'in. Billy must have had somethin' to do with it; I'll bet a cookie he had!" He opened the door gently and entered. He placed the ducks on the table and softly withdrew again.,

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.,

A thrill of alarm gripped Billy's heart-strings. Where had Croaker disappeared to? What if old Scroggie's ghost had grabbed him and cast over him the cloak of invisibility? Then in all likelihood he would be the next to feel that damp, clutching shroud.

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"When does the Minorca sail?",

"Go to sleep," said Billy drowsily.,

Mr Lawrence gave him a nod and then turned his head away, not desirous of further converse with a man he regarded as inferior to a boatswain's mate or master-at-arms upon a man-of-war.,

No more would the fire-flies weave a gauze of golden stars above the marshlands at the foot of the Causeway. The season of green and blue had lived and died and in its place had been born a season of drab and brown. Summer was gone. The song-birds had migrated. Soon the green rush fields would sway, grey and dead and the bronze woodcocks would whistle away from the bog-lands, for seldom did they tarry after the first frost. Along the creek the red-winged black-birds would be sounding their up-and-away notes. No happy carol to welcome the first glow of dawn! No wonder Billy sighed. Then he lifted his head quickly as, high above him, sounded the whistle of wings. Up from the north a wedgeshaped flock of wild ducks came speeding, white backs flashing as they pitched downward in unbroken formation towards the calling bay-waters.