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"Gee! how am I to know; it's right here somewheres, though." "Oh, Jerusalem!" gasped Billy, "An' me without my rabbit foot charm." He realized where Croaker was leading him—straight to the haunted house. He wiped his streaming face on his sleeve and determined he'd go through with it. "Had my supper," Billy informed him. "You go on back and tell Ma that.".
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Conrad
Wilson whistled softly. "You don't say!" he managed to articulate. "Why, Mary, it's a pipe!" Anson shook his head. "I don't want'a go duck-shootin'," he said. "I know jest what you fellers 'ud do; you'd get me in all the bog-holes an' make me carry your ducks. No sir, I'm goin' to tell Ma." He picked up his hat and bounded outside. He found Croaker seated on the chicken yard fence, gravely surveying his ancient and mortal enemy, the old game cock, and whispering guttural insults that fairly made the rooster bristle with anger. "Croaker, good old Croaker, come down and I'll get you a cookie," Erie begged..
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