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Cullum, Ridgwell, [pseud.], 1867-1943

"The Forfeit"


But I guess ther's times when it's good fer a man to feel he ain't as
big as he's told. Anyways, you get right ahead, and leave me to the
Obars. I ain't goin' to fail you now, any more than any other time."
Then he rumpled his stubbly hair again, and it was an action that
suggested heavy thought. "Say," he went on, a moment later, his eyes
looking squarely into the face of the other, "we're hittin' the trail
good an' early to-morrow. Guess you best let me say 'good-bye' to Nan
for you. That so?"
Jeff nodded. He understood. And somehow the bigness of this man made
him almost despise himself.
"Then I guess I'll get right on with my--packin'."
* * * * * *
They were standing on the stoop of Aston's Hotel. In front of them the
broad Avenue opened out with its central walk, between an aisle of
wide-spreading maple trees bathed in the early morning sun. A spring
wagon was already moving away, piled up with baggage. The saddle
horses were ready, held by one of the hotel servants.


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