Delane taught him to play patience, and he used to sit for hours by the library fire, puzzling over the cards, or talking to the children’s parrot, which he fed and tended with a touching regularity. He also devoted a good deal of time to collecting stamps for his youngest grandson, and his increasing gentleness and playful humour so endeared him to the servants that a trusted housemaid had to be dismissed for smuggling cocktails into his room. On fine days Delane, coming home earlier from the bank, would take him for a short stroll; and one day, happening to walk up Fifth Avenue behind them, I noticed that the younger man’s broad shoulders were beginning to stoop like the other’s, and that there was less lightness in his gait than in Bill Gracy’s jaunty shamble. They looked like two old men doing their daily mile on the sunny side of the street.
"Stop it, for God's sake, stop it!" Piacentelli shouted, his unamplified voice coming from a smoke-filled alley. Hartford plunged into the dark smoke—a tear-gas grenade had set afire some of the sun-flower-paper room dividers, and kindled with them a row of wooden houses—and shouted for Piacentelli. A blabrigar, as blind in the smoke as the men, blundered against Hartford's helmet. "Yuke! Yuke!" the bird screamed, grabbing hold of the transceiver-antenna that horned up from the helmet. Hartford grabbed the blabrigar and tossed it up above the melee. He heard it flying in circles, searching for its Stinker owners, chanting the last words they'd said to it: "Yuke! Yuke! Yuke!"—"Go!"
They slid slowly, silently, over the smooth bosom of the holy river, that was burnished with the moonlight. From the distance came the sound of native singing, a faint sound that rose and fell on the warm night air, only to be drowned, as though in protest, by the yells of jackals hunting, closely packed, across the plain.
“Unable to get a race in Tennessee, Uncle Berry took his horse to Natchez, Miss., traveling through the swamps of the Chickasaw and Choctaw Nations, and entered him in a stake, three mile heats, 0 entrance; but his bad luck pursued him, and just before the race his horse snagged his foot, and he paid forfeit. He remained near Natchez twelve months and nursed his horse as no other man could have done, until he was perfectly restored to health and in condition for the approaching fall races of 1808. Writing to Col. George Elliott, he urged him to come to Natchez and bring fifteen or twenty horses to bet on Omar, and also to bring Monkey Simon to ride him, which Colonel Elliott did.
The presence beside him was urging him to look beyond, into a denser, richer region of suns. McCray, unsure of his powers, stretched toward it—and recoiled.
"Love to," Arthur responded eagerly.
"By drawing a game—playing to a tie. Lysmov's 3-1/2—1/2 is notational shorthand for three wins and a draw. Understand? My dear, I don't usually have to explain things to you in such detail."
"But why have you gone on staying there if you feel like that?" Arthur asked.
To a man of Macfarren's nature, who had a tender respect for all women, this exhibition, however graceful, could not but be painful. But when the woman in the case was the one dearest to him in the whole world, the pain became agony. But far was it from Mrs. Van Tromp to be shocked at
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