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Bacheller, Irving, 1859-1950

"Eben Holden, a tale of the north country"

How're your'n?' he asked.
I got them out from under the berth and we inspected them
carefully deciding in the end they would pass muster.
The steward had made up our berths, when he came, and lit our
room for us. Our feverish discussion of attire had carried us far
past midnight, when we decided to go to bed.
'S'pose we musn't talk t' no strangers there 'n New York,' said
Uncle Eb, as he lay down. 'I've read 'n the Tribune how they'll
purtend t' be friends an' then grab yer money an' run like Sam Hill.
If I meet any o' them fellers they're goin' t' find me purty middlin'
poor comp'ny.'
We were up and on deck at daylight, viewing the Palisades. The
lonely feeling of an alien hushed us into silence as we came to the
noisy and thickening river craft at the upper end of the city.
Countless window panes were shining in the morning sunlight.
This thought was in my mind that somewhere in the innumerable
host on either side was the one dearer to me than any other. We
enquired our way at the dock and walked to French's Hotel, on
Printing House Square.


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