Doc looked solemn for a moment, then he started to chuckle. "You are getting altogether too smart, Miss Sandra Lea Grayling," he said. "Yes, yes—a chess player is happy to win in any barely legitimate way he can, by an earthquake if necessary, or his opponent sickening before he does from the bubonic plague. So—I confess it to you—I was very happy to chalk up my utterly undeserved win over the luckless Machine."
Like the mist on Corryvechan,
Such is, in brief, a glimpse of Mason’s military career as gleaned from scattered records. In 1845 Draper filed among his manuscripts a letter which states that “Capt. Mason resided where Daniel Steenrod’s house now is, two miles east of Wheeling, and kept a tavern there in 1780.” [12M] Another of his notes is to the effect that Mason lived on Wheeling Creek at the Narrows, and that in the spring of 1782 Indians stole some of his negroes. He and a man named Peter Stalnaker went in pursuit. The Indians, seeing the two
And crossed on the railing one o’er one
as being more or less normal and reasonable. And when he thought of the future he had already begun to anticipate the probability of his staying on at Hartling until old Kenyon died.
Simon Great smiled. "I can answer that question honestly, Miss Grayling, because the news is due for release. No. WBM is pressing for entry of the Machine in the Interzonal Candidates' Tournament. They want a crack at the World's Championship."
Yet, after all, she had a rather depressing effect upon the city. She gave no new play that was perfectly beautiful. She appeared to detest romance and had little understanding of blank verse. Starting her public life as a patron of Bernard Shaw, she declined upon Shaw’s fevered disciples. She spoke in public very frequently, and always said the same things. She had all the enthusiasm of a clever business woman. Wishing very much to make money (so she told us), she understood all the arts of self-advertisement. But, really, Manchester was not the place for her; it was sufficiently hard and provincial before she came——
municipal authorities of the contemporary type in impossible business undertakings under the guidance of fussy, energetic, legal minded and totally unscientific instigators. Except for the quite recent development of Socialist thought that is now being embodied in the New Heptarchy Series of the Fabian Society, scarcely anything has been done to dispel these reasonable dreads. I should think that from the point of view of Socialist propaganda, the time is altogether ripe now for a fresh and more vigorous insistence upon the materially creative aspect of the Vision of Socialism, an aspect which is after all, much more cardinal and characteristic than any aspect that has hitherto been presented systematically to the world. An enormous rebuilding, remaking, and expansion is integral in the Socialist dream. We want to get the land out of the control of the private owners among whom it is cut up, we want to get houses, factories, railways, mines, farms out of the dispersed management of their proprietors, not in order to secure their
??God??? said Jelalludin.
“Like him?” echoed Mackellar. “Like him? Man, he’s 149fifty per cent. the best I’ve set eyes on. And I’ve seen a hantle of ’em.”
But rounding the upper turn Duane shook him off and entered the stretch an open length and a half in front. Again a great shout went up from the backers of the peerless brown stallion as they saw his move, and again as the sound reached Boston it seemed to lend him wings. Running true and straight as a bullet flies, without touch of whip, the whitefaced son of Timoleon began to devour the space that separated him from his antagonist, and as they passed the stand at the end of the second mile his white nose was at Duane’s hip. Going around the lower turn the boys again took easy pulls on their horses, and in this position they go up the stretch and around the upper turn, Boston holding his place with the tenacity of a bull dog. But the white star of Duane is still in front as they swing into the stretch, and again his backers greet him with a cheer and again “old white nose” takes the compliment to himself and promptly, in response, he quickens his stride and again reaches Duane. Half-way down the stretch he collars him, and as they pass the stand his white nose is in front for the first time since starting on this last heat. It was now the time for Boston’s friends to cheer, and if pandemonium had broken loose more noise could not have been made. Men were simply wild with excitement. They danced about like children; hats, coats and canes were thrown into the air. Gilpatrick and I hugged each other and shouted ourselves hoarse, and, as the horses rounded the lower turn, the shouting increased, as it was seen that Boston, inspired by the shouting, no doubt, had kept up his killing stride and had taken the track from Duane. But to experienced riders like Gil and I this sudden change in position was rather a source of uneasiness. We both knew Hartman well. He was every inch a rider and a cool and skillful horseman, and we could see that he had taken a strong pull on his horse, saving him for the terrific finish he knew was yet to come. Knowing from our own experience in the saddle what was coming we paid no attention to the over-sanguine friends of Boston shouting: “Duane has quit!” “Duane has quit!” We knew the horse and we knew the rider, and we also knew that a race for life was coming and our fortunes were on the issue. So we anxiously watched them as they raced nose and tail, with Boston leading up the back side and around the upper turn.
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