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Raine, William MacLeod, 1871-1954

"Bucky O'Connor"

"
Bucky waved a hand easily into space. "That's all right, too,
son. There's a heap of directions you can hit from here. Take any
one you like. But if I was as beat as you are, I think I'd keep
on the Epitaph road." He laughed his warm, friendly laugh, before
the geniality of which discord seemed to melt, and again his arm
went round the other's weary shoulders with a caressing gesture
that was infinitely protecting.
The boy laughed tremulously. "You're awfully good to me. I know
I'm a cry-baby, sissy boy, but if you'll be patient with me I'll
try to be gamer."
It certainly was strange the way Bucky's pulse quickened and his
blood tingled when he touched the little fellow and heard that
velvet voice's soft murmur. Yes, it surely was strange, but
perhaps the young Irishman's explanation was not the correct one,
after all. The cause he offered to himself for this odd joy and
tender excitement was perfectly simple.
"I'm surely plumb locoed, or else gone soft in the haid," he told
himself grimly.
But the reason for those queer little electric shocks that pulsed
through him was probably a more elemental and primeval one than
even madness.


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