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“Yes.” "It is your grand-daughter, Little Red Riding-Hood," answered the Wolf, imitating the child's voice. "I have brought a cake and a little jar of butter, which my mother has sent you." The good grandmother, who was ill in bed, called out, "Pull the bobbin, and the latch will go up." The Wolf pulled the bobbin, and the door opened. He leaped on to the poor old woman, and ate her up in less than no time, for he had been three days without food. He then shut the door again, and laid himself down in the grandmother's bed, to wait for Little Red Riding-Hood. Presently she came and knocked at the door: tap, tap. “The worst thing is about the umbrella.”.

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It was some moments before their combined efforts to clutch the rocky roof of the tunnel succeeded sufficiently to bring their boat under control. “He’ll have to hike some,” thought Bob, “if he’s going to get back to Rutherford to-night.” Then he turned his attention to the Greaser, who had not moved out of the sprawling position he was in. The ache in Bob’s muscles became almost unbearable. When the Mexican rolled and lit another cigarette as if he expected to stay where he was all night, he was almost tempted to drop off the ladder and let the worst happen. Every day at home he had a great gymnastic performance, holding a dining-room chair at arm’s length. He could do it splendidly now, so lately he had thought he would practise holding his sisters up that way. If he began with the littlest sister he might by degrees work up to the biggest. Perhaps even so he might not be able to manage Asta—she was so fat. But they were all tiresome. They screamed if he merely touched them. Just think what happened in the dining room only yesterday? The first intimation the boys had of the approaching rapids was the increasing speed of the boat. As they looked ahead the water seemed clear and unbroken, but some current stronger than usual was hurrying them along..