our old Organization had built, was holding a room for instant occupancy; and, as that big bird daily swung down, down, down, almost grazing that small roof, Frank, poor chap, as shaky as at his church ritual, thirty months ago, staid away from Radio Station KBH, and stuck to that small bungalow as a fly sticks around a sugar bowl.
Finally, on a crisp Autumn night, that soaring bird shot straight down with such an assuring swoop, that old Doc Wilkins, indoors with Nancy, saw it and said, quickly:—
“On your way, Nancy girl!!” and that part of Branton Hills saw his car racing hospitalwards, with Lady Gadsby fondly patting Nancy’s tiny, cold hands, and saying just such loving things as a woman would, naturally, to a young girl on such a trip. But Gadsby and Frank? Ah! Poor, half-crazy things! No car would do at all! No, sir!! A car was far too slow! And so, across lots, down into many a man’s yard, and jumping high walls, shot two shadowy forms, arriving at that big hospital, badly blown, just as Lady Gadsby and old Doc Wilkins took Nancy’s arms, and got slowly to that big door with its waiting rolling chair.
Now this stork’s visit is nothing out of ordinary in World affairs. Millions and billions of visits has it, and its kind, flown—to king’s mansion
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