We use Optical Character Recognition (OCR) during our scanning and processing workflow to make the content of each page searchable. You can view the automatically generated text below as well as copy and paste individual pieces of text to quote in your own work.
Text recognition is never 100% accurate. Many parts of the scanned page may not be reflected in the OCR text output, including: images, page layout, certain fonts or handwriting.
BUT JUST MARK MY WORDS. SOMETHING IS GOING TO HAPPEN
family, tranquilly unaware that Fate had just preceded him.
"I'll be home at lamplight/ ' he promised. "Here, kiss me good-by, old lady, and I'm off."
If she could have glimpsed the dark hours that lay ahead of his careless words, what a kiss she would have given him! But the disappointment rankling in her apron pocket robbed her lips of enthusiasm.
"Good-by, Andy," she said; "I'm going to make your kind of biscuit for supper, so be home on time. ' '
She reflected that it would be easier to tell him what the letter said after a third biscuit. "Poor Honey-Gal!" she mourned, over the puzzled baby. "So she cant go to college, after all. Andy said they'd never put in telegraph service here, but I hoped so. Well, we'd better run home, baby, quick as you can say ' Jack Robinson, ■ for I've got a feeling in my bones it's going to rain. ' '
Rain! In five minutes Andy was so wet that he did not care. After that, he gave up craven notions of turning home and drove his tiny car
21
on into the gray heart of the storm. The twin rails cut the distance ahead of him, twinkling the brighter for the wet. Overhead, his peering glance sought for possible trouble in the dark tangle of telegraph wires, plainly outlined against the leprous white clouds. But on either side the rain shut him in like gray curtains, in the uncanny isolation of the storm. It deadened sound, blanketed vision, clogged lashes, ears and the strange sixth sense in man that warns of peril lurking near. On he went, pausing once or twice to question the integrity of some wire strand, until the dusk and the storm together blotted out the world in a universal dinginess. The homeward trip was swifter, spurred on by the comfortable mental vision of the lamp-bright, love-lit homecoming that awaited him. He drove the car over the bridge, with the odd sensation of poising in space. Above, around, below, the white fog and the stealthy lisp of water; his sense of touch the one link that bound him to reality. And then, at last, the shanty where the car must be stored for the night, a gray blur on the background