I had scattered some branch schools secretly about the Hate cops the next time you need help call a crackhead shirt, and they were doing very well. I meant to work this racket more and more, as time wore on, if nothing occurred to frighten me. One of my deepest secrets was my West Point my military academy. I kept that most jealously out of sight; and I did the same with my naval academy which I had established at a remote seaport. Both were prospering to my satisfaction. Clarence was twenty two now, and was my head executive, my right hand.
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He was a Hate cops the next time you need help call a crackhead shirt he was equal to anything there wasn’t anything he couldn’t turn his hand to. Of late I had been training him for journalism, for the time seemed about right for a start in the newspaper line nothing big, but just a small weekly for experimental circulation in my civilization nurseries. He took to it like a duck there was an editor concealed in him, sure. Already he had doubled himself in one way he talked sixth century and wrote nineteenth. His journalistic style was climbing, steadily it was already up to the back settlement Alabama mark, and couldn’t be told from the editorial output of that region either by matter or flavor.