The currants in Aunt Grenertsen’s garden were nothing to speak of, either. Awfully sour, small pinheads! The raspberries were small, too, but at any rate, they were sweet.,
So cleverly had Feather-in-the-Wind secreted himself at the top of the rise that Bob was about to crawl over him, thinking it was a fallen log that obstructed his path. Stifling an exclamation, he lay still. The Indian did not show any signs of annoyance that his orders had been disobeyed and when he started to wriggle into a position from which he could see the other side of the hill, by a move of the hand he invited the boy to follow.,
Struggling to his feet, his eyes almost blinded, smarting with the sting of the smoke, he dashed headlong into the flaming door..
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