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She leaned in so close to him that he could see her pores and smell the mint on her breath. "What was it like?" she whispered. "He just fell." "I hear you couldn't even tell who he was—after." "No." The bike was unrecognizable, too. Just a tangle ofmetal caught underneath the boxcar and dragged another fifty yards down the track. Dad told him how the workmen had cut the bits ofit away from the underside ofthe train. Out ofconsideration for the Mullins family, they hosed it down before they threw it in the scrap heap. "You won't be getting it back," his father said. "Seems a shame you losing your friend and your bike, too. It was a good bike. I know you worked a long time on it." Davy nodded. He had worked a long time. He had built it twice, almost from scratch, and he had been proud ofit. On the night before the pony express game, the last thing he had done was to file through one link ofthe bicycle chain, so that when any stress was put on it, the chain would break, throwing the bike offbalance. "It's all right, Dad," said Davy. "It's all right." Hound, Horn, and Popping Wood Grandpa said he heard the hunters blow Foxhorn music to their running hounds And on a ridge night-feathered black as crow He saw a foxfire, heard wood-popping sounds. "Scoot near me boy, them dogs hound-talk a chase That's worth a pretty." Grandma said: "I declare! Your grandpa's old, and childish; a disgrace He'd lie to one so young. Ain't nothing there!" Grandpa winked—and Grandma didn't hear "Your grandma thinks hounds are only good for fleas. It only takes a want to hear them there." I pitied Grandma knowing that she could Not hear with us hound, horn, and popping wood. —Billy C. Clark 64 ...

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