Micky, the bull pup belonging to the Camp, had discovered her hiding place and would undoubtedly give her away.

"Go away, Micky!"

At the sound of her voice Micky barked more loudly than ever, a joyous, welcoming bark.

Having been much petted by Agony, Micky had grown very fond of her, and seeing her walk off into the woods today, he had followed after her, and now gave loud voice to his satisfaction at finding her.

Micky looked astonished as the dirt flew past his nose, but refused to retire.

"Here, Micky, Micky," she called coaxingly.

"Here, Micky, Micky," she called coaxingly.

Micky, clumsy puppy that he was, made a wild leap into the ravine and landed upon the sharp point of a jagged stump, cutting a jagged gash in his shoulder.

When she was sure that the boat must be out of sight she shoved Micky gently out of her lap and rose to climb out of her hiding place.

"Did you ever see two gentlemen that hated each other more cordially?" "She is an arrant little flirt, isn't she, Micky?"

"She can have me any minute, on the stage or off," answered Micky promptly.

She had a little boy who also appeared to be partly of Celtic descent, as he had a red head, and was nicknamed "Micky Free."

In the early part of 1858 John Ward got drunk, and beat his step-son Micky Free until he ran away to Sonora.

He listened to John Ward's tale of woe, and ordered out a detachment of the First Dragoons, under Lieutenant Bascomb, to pursue the Apaches and recover Micky Free and the oxen.

The cost of the war against Cochise would have purchased John Ward a string of yokes of oxen reaching from the Atlantic to the Pacific; and as for his woman's son, Micky Free, he afterwards became an Indian scout and interpreter, and about as infamous a scoundrel as those who generally adorn that profession.

There was one of them was called Micky the Devil in Irish; he never went out without the pitchcap and the triangle, and any rebel he would meet he would put gunpowder in his hair and set a light to it.

By John Dos Passos, illustrated by Micky Strobel.

By John Dos Passos, illustrated by Micky Strobel.

I'll give you a letter of introduction to Micky Cassily.

Micky and myself are old friends.

" Mrs. Kinsella caught up her baby as she spoke, gave a hasty look round to make sure that Micky and Nanny were not crawling into the fire, enjoined Mary, her "second eldest" little girl, to "have an eye to them" during her absence, and, hustling her firstborn before her, hastily left the cabin.

Here ye are, Micky!" "Wait a minute.

Maybe Micky knows who they behe lives in that next house.

Hey, Micky; here's a guy wants to ask you som'thin'!"

But Micky refused to be interested, beyond a derisive wiggling of his fingers at his nose, and West, having abstracted all the information possible, made no further effort.