What was the old tabby at? Unaccountably embarrassed, he cleared his throat. He sat back in an easy chair with a hand upon each of the elbows, and looked steadfastly into the fire. Our men had him fast, held down in a chair. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs.
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