“Down the creek boys.”

Liz looked down at her book.

His father looked down at him.

Some of the whiskey ran down on his shirt front.

Dick put the three axes down on the little dock.

Then three more came over further down the wall.

Nick turned his head and looked down at Rinaldi.

He set down his suitcase and knocked on the door.

“You go down after him,” said Maera, “he hates me.”

The others went down and took the bottles with them.

Dick Boulton walked around past the cottage down to the lake.

Dick picked up the axes and Eddy took the saw down from the tree.

A steep sandy road ran down the hill to the bay through the timber.

The blood had flowed down into a pool where his body sagged the bunk.

She walked over to the edge of the dock and looked down to the water.

They laid Maera down on a cot and one of the men went for the doctor.

He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass.

If you call me Doc once again, I’ll knock your eye teeth down your throat.

We sat down at a table under a big tree and the king ordered whisky and soda.

They sat down in the shelter of the warehouse and Jim pulled Liz close to him.

They tried to hold him up against the wall but he sat down in a puddle of water.

When she saw the wagon coming down the road she felt weak and sick sort of inside.

He had so much equipment on and looked awfully surprised and fell down into the garden.

“We’ve got to beat them down,” whispered Daisy, winking ferociously toward the fervent sun.

When they fired the first volley he was sitting down in the water with his head on his knees.

The others went on ahead of him down to the lake shore where the logs were buried in the sand.

From Smith’s back door you could look out across the woods that ran down to the lake and across the bay.

Up the road a ways was the Methodist church and down the road the other direction was the township school.

“We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed.

The logs had been lost from the big log booms that were towed down the lake to the mill by the steamer Magic.

Dick kneeled down in the sand and looked at the mark of the scaler’s hammer in the wood at the end of the log.

There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air.

I heard the drums coming down the street and then the fifes and the pipes and then they came around the corner, all dancing.

She liked it the way he walked over from the shop and often went to the kitchen door to watch for him to start down the road.

There was no moon and they walked ankle deep in the sandy road through the trees down to the dock and the warehouse on the bay.

He sat down in the sand and puked and they held a cape over him while the crowd hollered and threw things down into the bull ring.

It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again.

So I went down and caught up with them and grabbed him while he was crouched down waiting for the music to break loose and said, “Come on, Luis.”

The crowd shouted all the time, and threw pieces of bread down into the bull ring, then cushions and leather wine bottles, keeping up whistling and yelling.

The horse’s entrails hung down in a blue bunch and swung backward and forward as he began to canter, the monos whacking him on the back of his legs with the rods.

Finally the bull was too tired from so much sticking and folded his knees and lay down and one of the cuadrilla leaned out over his neck and killed him with the puntillo.

When they stopped the music for the crouch he hunched down in the street with them all and when they started it again he jumped up and went dancing down the street with them.

There was a certain inner comfort in knowing he could knock down anybody who was snooty to him, although, being very shy and a thoroughly nice boy, he never fought except in the gym.

Nick’s father always assumed that this was what would happen, and hired the Indians to come down from the camp and cut the logs up with the crosscut saw and split them with a wedge to make cord wood and chunks for the open fireplace.

His family were enormously wealthy⁠—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach⁠—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest.

If it happened right down close in front of you, you could see Villalta snarl at the bull and curse him, and when the bull charged he swung back firmly like an oak when the wind hits it, his legs tight together, the muleta trailing and the sword following the curve behind.