United States or Oman ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Now the doctor, in his suave, sympathetic way, began to question Bradish; and Bradish began to unravel the mystery, pausing now and again to rest, for the ordeal through which he had just passed had been a great mental and nervous strain.
And they're all right, too, I presume all but Wing and Dunraven and me." As Waterloo lingered in the memory of the conquered Corsican, so Ashtabula was burned into the brain of Bradish. Out of that awful wreck he crawled, widowed and childless. For a long time he did not realize, for his head was hurt in that frightful crash.
But I ain' gwyne to resk no mo' money in stock. De cow up 'n' died on my han's." "So you lost the ten dollars." "No, I didn't lose it all. I on'y los' 'bout nine of it. I sole de hide en taller for a dollar en ten cents." "You had five dollars and ten cents left. Did you speculate any more?" "Yes. You know that one-laigged nigger dat b'longs to old Misto Bradish?
The doctor sat directly in front of the narrator, the detective beside him, while interested passengers hung over the backs of seats and blocked the narrow aisle. Women, with faces still blanched, sat up in bed listening breathlessly to the strange story of John Bradish.
Once more the conductor pulled the bell, but the train stood still. One of the passengers picked up the man's hand-grip that had fallen from his berth, and found that the card held in the leather tag read: "JOHN BRADISH." "Go forward," shouted the conductor to the rear brakeman, "and get 'em out of here, tell McNally we've got the ghost."
With a snort of disgust Bud turned his back on the big fellow and began: "Me an' 'Peep-o'-day' Thompson wuz ridin' herd on a bunch o' cattle belongin' ter ole man Bradish. All we hed ter do wuz ter keep 'em from driftin' too fur, which nat'rally left us much time fer meditation an' conversation.
"There was Bradish the pirate, who at the time Lord Bellamont made such a stir after the buccaneers, buried money and jewels somewhere in these parts or on Long-Island; and then there was Captain Kidd " "Ah, that Kidd was a daring dog," said an iron-faced Cape Cod whaler. "There's a fine old song about him, all to the tune of: 'My name is Robert Kidd, As I sailed, as I sailed.
After the disappearance from the Faculty roll of the name of the Detroit portrait painter, Alvah Bradish, who apparently gave a few lectures on Fine Arts during the period from 1852 to 1863, no work in fine arts was given until the appointment of Professor Herbert R. Cross, Brown, '00, in 1911.
It was Bradish and others of the buccaneers who had buried money, some said in Turtle Bay, others on Long-Island, others in the neighborhood of Hell Gate. Indeed, added he, I recollect an adventure of Mud Sam, the negro fisherman, many years ago, which some think had something to do with the buccaneers. As we are all friends here, and as it will go no farther, I'll tell it to you.
And for a minute them two stood there givin' each other the assault and batt'ry stare, without sayin' a word. A queer lookin' pair they made, too; this Bradish gent, big and beefy and prosperous, and Tink Tuttle, his greasy old coat hangin' loose on his skinny shoulders, and lookin' like he was on his way from the accident ward to the coroner's office. "Five thousand cash, then," growls Mr. Jones.
Word Of The Day