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"Hm, hm," sighed Dr. Bagby, tapping his teeth, jingling his heavy gold watch-chain, brushing a trail of cigar-ashes from a lapel, then staring abstractedly at Carl, who was turning his hat swiftly round and round, so flushed of cheek, so excited of eye, that he seemed twenty instead of twenty-four. "Yes, yes, so you'd like to join. Tst. But that would cost you five hundred dollars, you know."
I don't know whether this is the one or not, but she was introduced as a Miss Gorwood, or some such name as that, when they were living together as husband and wife on the North Side." "Tst! Tst! Tst!" clicked Mrs. Craig with her tongue at this astonishing news. "You don't tell me! Come to think of it, it must be the same woman. Her father's name is Gerhardt." "Gerhardt!" exclaimed Mrs.
The position appeared by no means to please him, however, with an increasing rabble surrounding the coach, deriding him, making grimaces at him, and incessantly groaning and calling out: "Yah! Spies! Tst! Yaha! Spies!" with many compliments too numerous and forcible to repeat. Funerals had at all times a remarkable attraction for Mr.
"'You're always a-laying out your money on something or other, said the old lady, who took the privilege of her years to be a little testy. 'What did you give for that? "'A shilling, ma'am. "'Tst! tst! tst! said the old lady, disapprovingly. "'Now, Mother, don't shake that cap of yours off your head, said the sailor. 'What's a shilling?
"I don't know," returned the man, clapping his hands to his mouth nevertheless, and vociferating in a surprising heat and with the greatest ardour, "Spies! Yaha! Tst, tst! Spi ies!" At length, a person better informed on the merits of the case, tumbled against him, and from this person he learned that the funeral was the funeral of one Roger Cly. "Was He a spy?" asked Mr. Cruncher.
"So, then! One more pull and you're at the top and be damned to you, for I have had trouble enough to get you to it! Joe!" "Halloa!" the guard replied. "What o'clock do you make it, Joe?" "Ten minutes, good, past eleven." "My blood!" ejaculated the vexed coachman, "and not atop of Shooter's yet! Tst! Yah! Get on with you!"
Even she, however, seemed to be impressed by the hideous memory the room called up in her, for she spoke, not in her usual gruffly indifferent tones, but in a husky whisper. "Tst tst!" she began, testily. "Haven't you got over that yet? One Jew the less in the world! What is it to trouble about? Be a man come, be a man! See, this is how I got rid of him." As she spoke, Mrs.
"Loan us four pesos ... three ... two," begged the younger brother. "Presently I will return it to you doubled. The fight is going to begin." Lucas scratched his head again. "Tst! This money is not mine. Don Crisostomo has given it to me for those who want to serve him. But I see that you are not like your father. He was really courageous."
The horses stopped to breathe again, and the guard got down to skid the wheel for the descent, and open the coach-door to let the passengers in. "Tst! Joe!" cried the coachman in a warning voice, looking down from his box. "What do you say, Tom?" They both listened. "I say a horse at a canter coming up, Joe."
"Old Bailey spy," returned his informant. "Yaha! Tst! Yah! Old Bailey Spi i ies!" "Why, to be sure!" exclaimed Jerry, recalling the Trial at which he had assisted. "I've seen him. Dead, is he?" "Dead as mutton," returned the other, "and can't be too dead. Have 'em out, there! Spies! Pull 'em out, there! Spies!"
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