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Billy sprang up. The dark man of the sinister house was passing on his way to town; had answered a horseman’s salute. The boy could not see the house; but on the high hill above it he saw the other brother, regardless of the Sabbath, hoeing his vineyard. “Just to think I’ve got to heat up more water and fill this tank again for a good-for-nothing urchin like you! Begorra! It’s worth it though to see you get a good ducking!” “It came to me feet foremost, I guess, and soaked the quilt in instalments. I had a tough dream, too; couldn’t wake up in the middle. I dreamed I was on a ship in a bang-up storm, and the vessel lunged like a bucking horse.”.
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Conrad
“Are you hungry, Isobel?” questioned her mother. “You young scamp, you found water, didn’t you, more than you needed? For the love of St. Patrick, if it isn’t the spalpeen that split his sides laughing at me falling on the ice yesterday!” THE place Billy called the Fo’castle was a tiny room in the sloping windmill tower. It was level with the second floor of the house, and a narrow, railed bridge connected it with a door in his mother’s room. Under it was the above-ground cellar, overhead the big tank. Still higher whirled the great white wings that pumped the beauty-giving water to lawn and gardens. Choosing a piece of bright yellow chalk she began to inscribe the golden text on the blackboard. She pressed too hard and the chalk cracked and fell to the floor. Pete Stolway vaulted out of his chair to capture the yellow pencil, but he had the misfortune to step on both the pieces of crayon, crushing them to sand, a heap of yellow grit..
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