bags

Last weekend a family slipped out at four in the morning, packing their bags and leaving out the side door without a word.

Blankets had been rolled up and strapped, haversacks and bags properly repacked, a last look taken to flints and priming.

Dumping his bags in the sand not far from the hole, he tried to think what would be best to do.

If other men had made money while he fought, then let them be weighed down by their bags of gold.

They gave me a key, and the man who ran the place asked me did I want any help with my bags.

Old Mr. Bags came in about ten minutes ago; but hearing more work might be done, he went out again.