United States or North Korea ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
His second was a sanguinary one; namely, that a pair of ducks would only be one meal for four campers who were "camp-hungry," and that Uncle Eb had spoken of squirrels as "fust-rate eatin'." He handled his gun uncertainly, deliberating whether or not he would load it, and try a shot at the bright-eyed chatterbox.
"Jim!" said the man, looking up quickly. "Good God! he knows me," said Jim, whimpering. "Yes, Mr. Benedict, I'm the same rough old fellow. How fare ye?" "I'm miserable," replied the man. "Well, ye don't look as ef ye felt fust-rate. How did ye git in here?" "Oh, I was damned when I died. It's all right, I know; but it's terrible." "Why, ye don't think ye're in hell, do ye?" inquired Jim.
He had a nervy grip, but no variation; he always tuk holt the same way." "Tears like ter me ez 'twar a fust-rate time ter fetch out the rifles again," remarked Tim, "this mornin', when old Pa'son Bates kem up hyar an' 'lowed ez he hed married Eveliny ter Abs'lom Kittredge on his death-bed; 'So be, pa'son, I say.
"`No more than a Mother Carey's chicken, says I. `Come along, then, says he; `I'll tak' 'ee to a fust-rate shop. "So off we went arm in arm as thick as two peas, an' after passin' through two or three streets he turns into a shop that smelt strong o' coffee. "`Hallo! mate, says I, `you've made some sort o' mistake. This here ain't the right sort o' shop.
By the time we got into the London river old Bill's leg was getting on fust-rate, and he got along splendid on a pair of crutches the carpenter 'ad made for him. Him and Joseph and the cook had 'ad a good many talks about the dream, and the old man 'ad invited the cook to come along 'ome with 'em, to be referred to when he told the tale.
Arrah-na-Pogue was writ by Dion O'Bourcicolt & Edward McHouse. They writ it well. O'Bourcy has writ a cartload of plays himself, the most of which is fust-rate. I understand there is a large number of O'gen'tlmen of this city who can rite better plays than O'Bourcy does, but somehow they don't seem to do it. When they do, I'll take a Box of them. It's the same with Dan Bryant.
"Say, Bangs," demanded he, eagerly, "do you mean you've still got that six hundred and fifty Development? Mean you ain't turned 'em over yet to anybody else?" "Eh? Why, no, Mr. Pulcifer, I haven't ah turned them over to any one else." "Good! Fust-rate! Fine and dandy! You and me can trade yet. You're all right, Perfessor, you are.
"I don't know much about fountains," said he, "but I know a good deal about men, and I never seed one with a black heart that ever had it washed out clean. A sinner kin be a fust-rate feller, full o' that weakness that helps a wretch outen trouble. The Savior knowed that and died for him." Margaret slammed her pan of turnips down upon the table. "Oh, sometimes I'm so put out with you."
How do you do, Mr. Pulcifer?" This placidity seemed to shut off Raish's breath for the moment, but it returned in full supply. "How do I DO!" he repeated. "Well, I ain't what you'd call fust-rate, I'd say. I'm pretty darn sick, if anybody should ask you. I've had enough to make me sick. Say, look here, Bangs! What kind of a game is this you've been puttin' over on me hey?... Hey?"
Yes, sir, a real nice young feller, as young fellers go. I like him fust-rate." "I'm glad, Uncle Shad," said Mary. "I like him, too." Shadrach regarded her with a little of the questioning scrutiny he had devoted to Crawford during dinner. "You do, eh?" he mused. "How much?" "How much?" repeated Mary, puzzled. "What do you mean?" "I mean how much do you like him?
Word Of The Day