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Carroll was working himself up into a fine rage. "De boss, he's in bed," replied Perault coolly. "De pony, he's in de Black Dog Reever, guess." "The Black Dog? What the blank, blank d'ye mane, anyway? Why don't ye answer? Blank ye f'r a cursed crapeau of a Frenchman? Is that pony of moine drowned?" "Mebbe," said Perault, shrugging his shoulders, "unless he leev under de water lak one mush-rat."
For a moment he writhed in a silence even more ghastly than his laughter, then lay still. "Au!" he said, turning over on his back. "My grandfather believed this Pekia to be the abode of demons." He paused. "As for me, I believe in none of them, or in any other gods." And he blew out his breath contemptuously. Le Moine surveyed the scene critically.
"Anudder pennorth for Blo-ub!" he gurgled, and added jealously, one hand on the corpse, "He's moine. Oi killed un first." "Never mind about that! This way." There was one chance and one only. The door blocked one end; the Gentleman the other; the only exit was the man-hole. They must risk it. "Here, Blob! up here! quick now! give us a leg!" Blob gave him a heave.
"Oi been in Detroit; goin' back there to git in the automoebile business soon as Oi clane up a few more bonuses. Europe's dead an stinkin', Yank. Ain't no place for a young fellow. It's dead an stinkin', that's what it is." "It's pleasanter to live here than in America.... Say, d'you often get held up that way?" "Ain't happened to me before, but it has to pals o' moine." "Who d'you think it was?
Desmahis sang to the tune of La Faridondaine: "Quelques-uns prirent le cochon De ce bon saint Antoine, Et lui mettant un capuchon, Ils en firent un moine. Il n'en coûtait que la façon...." All the same Desmahis was in a pensive mood. For the moment he was ardently in love with all the three women with whom he was playing forfeits, and was casting burning looks of soft appeal at each in turn.
Why don't ye off wid it, man?" "It's moine, dev yez say?" asked Barney, appealing to the speaker. "Sartinly; you killed him. It's your'n by right." "An' it is raaly worth fifty dollars?" "Good as wheat for that." "Would yez be so frindly, thin, as to cut it aff for me?"
It was Jacques Clément, the murderous monk, a wily Dominican, bent on a mission which had for its object the extinction of the Valois race. While the king was reading a letter which the monk had presented the latter stabbed him deep in the stomach. Swooning, the king had just time to cry out: "Ha! le mechant moine: Il m'a tué, qu'on le tue."
This successful attempt of the English fleet to manoeuvre for the weather gage, that is to secure a position to the windward of their opponents, is the first recorded instance of what became the favourite tactics of British admirals. For the legend of Eustace see Witasse le Moine, ed. Förster . The battle of St.
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