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"Oh, no," says I. "It's all settled. Twenty-fifth of next month at St. Luke's. You're cast for the giving away act." "Wh-a-at?" says he, his heavy under jaw saggin' astonished. "Me?" "Fathers usually do," says I, "when they're handy." "And in good standing," he adds. "You er know the circumstances, I presume?" "Uh-huh," says I. "Don't seem to make any difference to them, though.
Sure enough, when the farmer reached Lanercost there were his bullocks contentedly grazing in a field, while contemplatively gazing at them stood an elderly man, with damaged face. Up rode the farmer on the mare. "Here!" shouted he angrily, "what the de'il are ye doin' wi' my bullocks?" "Wh-a-at?" bellowed the other with equal fury. "Your bullocks! And be d d to ye!
"O-o-o-oh!" says Vee, givin' a little squeal. "Who could do anything like that?" "I'm not saying," says I; "but there's a certain party who ain't just what he seems. You'd never guess, either. But just keep your eye on J. Dudley." "Wh-a-at!" gasps Vee. "Mr. Simms?" "Uh-huh," says I. "Listen. He knows about Nunca Secos Key, don't he? And about the gold and jewels there?" "That's so," says Vee.
"We aren't got enough to eat in the fo'c's'le, sir, an' we wants our proper 'lowance o' meat, instead of a lot of rotten kickshaw marmalade!" "Wh-a-at what the dickens d'ye mean?" roared out "Old Jock," touched on his tenderest point, the word "marmalade" to him having the same effect as a red rag on a bull.
At seven o'clock we gives it up and sits down alone. We hadn't finished our soup when this telegram comes. First off I thought Martha was goin' to choke or blow a cylinder head, I didn't know which. Then she takes to sobbin' into the consommé, and fin'lly she shoves the message over to me. "Wh-a-at?" I gasps. "Eloped, have they?"
Item, three pieces of twine. Item " "Have done with your items!" said the host. "And I marvel greatly to hear you speak in such fashion of your friend, Robin Hood of Barnesdale. For was he not with you in all good-fellowship?" "Wh-a-at? That Robin Hood?" gasped Middle with staring eyes. "Why did you not tell me?" "Faith, I saw no need o' telling you!
The iron clinking of the chains and the groaning creaking of the sheaves joined the wrathful roaring of the waves, and the wind howled loudly, scattering over the river the noise of toil and drove the clouds across the sky. "Mishka-a! The deuce take you!" cried someone from the top of the scaffolding. And from the deck, a large-formed peasant, with his head thrown upward, answered: "Wh-a-at?"
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