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"That's a nice smile you wear," said Mr. Johnston scathingly as he gazed down at Billy, his bony fingers caressing the long, supple pointer. "No," answered Billy, promptly, "not even Teacher Stanhope." "I dunno. Maybe, an' maybe not.".

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"Wounded whistlers aren't as hard to retrieve as redhead or bluebill," said Stanhope. The sehoolhouse stood with a wide sloping green before it and a tangle of second growth forest behind it. It was not an old building, but had the appearance of senile old age. Its coat of cheap terra-cotta paint had cracked into many wrinkles; its windows looked dully out like the lustreless eyes of an old, old man. The ante-room roof had been blown off by a winter's gale and replaced inaccurately, so that it set awry, jaunty and defiant, challenging the world. Its door hung on one hinge, leaning sleepily against a knife-scarred wall. A rail fence ran about the yard which was filled to choking with a rank growth of smart-weed. In one corner of the yard was a well with a faded blue pump holding the faded red arm of a handle toward the skies, as though evoking high heaven to bear witness that it was never intended to lead such a lonely and useless existence. Maurice shook his head. "It's maybe a cow!" he guessed hopefully. "My lamps need filling," she explained. "No, please don't come," as Hinter made to take the can from her, "I would rather you stayed with him.".