United States or Jersey ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Samuel Bowers had removed his cigar to let fall a sententious observation. "As long as an all-wise Providence saw fit to dump that sand-bank on one of the Polacks," said he, "I call it a piece of downright Ross Shelby luck that it fell on Kiska." "I should have worked as hard over a dago," rejoined Shelby; "or a dog either, I guess." "M-yes; I reckon.
"That's right hold it by the tip. On one side on one side. Now take both his wrists and pin them above his head so." All the while the steady pressure and relaxation went on, compelling the lungs to their function. Presently came the faintest quiver of a nostril, and Shelby smiled. "Kiska will do his own breathing pretty soon," he said. Presently he suggested: "Better fetch Hilliard now.
"He's hired a launch or tug," commented Shelby. "Horses aren't to be had to-day for rubies or fine gold." He replaced the message, sealed the envelope, and flung it on the table, catching sight of Kiska, as he did so, striding along the canal bank toward the office.
He led him presently to talk of the quarry-workers and their families, their wages, their hours, their recreation, their parish church, their priest, their school; for Little Poland was sufficient unto itself; and Kiska saw that he questioned with sympathy and understanding, and was pleased.
If there was any way of reaching him by wire, we could relieve his mind; as there is not, the wise course is to go ahead. His coming by boat is uncertain. It will be a nice little surprise for him to find that you've got the votes all in." So it seemed to Kiska, and the business of rallying Little Poland to its civic duties was instantly got under way. Here, too, were obstacles.
The big Pole burst into the room a moment later, his simple face aglow at the meeting, and sputtered broken excuses for keeping his preserver waiting. Shelby shook both his grimy hands, and smilingly supposed that Kiska had made up his mind how he should vote. Kiska's English was uncertain, but there was no misreading his gesticulation. "And Little Poland?" insinuated the candidate, blandly.
"Did you walk all the way from Little Poland to see me?" "I valked," answered Kiska, simply, his face working. "I vould like to haf roon, Meester Shelby." "Oh, I wouldn't run much just yet," laughed Shelby, kindly, trying to head off the man's expression of gratitude. "Have another drink? Perhaps you'd prefer some whiskey?" Kiska declined, and harked back to his message.
He merely told Kiska he'd return at three-thirty." "Good, good!" exclaimed Shelby, making ready for action. "Every naturalized mother's son in Little Poland shall vote for me before the train can even whistle. Now, you go home, Cora," he charged, "and drink something hot against this graveyard chill. Keep a stiff upper lip that's my creed. Everything blows over in time.
Yet where one person read of Shelby's plagiarism, a score devoured the sensational accounts of his rescue of Kiska, while of those who read both, an illogical but human majority considered his atonement complete.
The Poles came hulking in, Shelby himself keeping tally at the door, and when Kiska had urged the last loiterer over the threshold, the key was turned.
Word Of The Day