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Following the custom in Virginia, the voter, instead of casting a ballot, merely declared his preference in the presence of the candidates, the election officials, and the assembled multitude. In the intensity of the struggle no voter, halt, lame, or blind, was overlooked; and a barrel of whisky near at hand lent further zest to the occasion.
I jolly well ballyragged Joseph Antony Kinsella until he opened his last cask of illicit whisky. 'Illicit' is what both father and Lord Torrington called it and at first I didn't know what that meant, but I looked it out in the dict. and now do know, also how to spell it, which I shouldn't otherwise. Then we had a most frightful scene in Joseph Antony Kinsella's cottage. Lady Isabel was splendid.
He said that he left the fellow on the floor in the bar-room. "Had he come to?" inquired Duane. "Sure. He asked for whisky." "Did he say anything else?" "Not to me. I heard him talkin' to the father of them girls." "You mean Colonel Longstreth?" "I reckon. He sure was some riled, wasn't he? Jest as if I was to blame fer that two-bit of a hold-up!"
He was preceded by a relishing odor of whisky; but his head was Scotch; and nothing but his odor betrayed him. "I have a document here to sign," said Noel Vanstone, repeating his lesson; "and I wish you to write your names on it, as witnesses of my signature." The coachman looked at the will. The cook never removed her eyes from Mrs. Lecount.
"For an Adelphi guest at eighteenpence the night," assured him the Wee Laddie. "Ye're just splendid at it." The Briefless one, muttering that the worst of mixing with journalists was that if you did not watch yourself, you fell into their ways, drank his whisky in silence.
He awoke at daylight, found himself fully clothed and with a craving for whisky which he knew of old, and tried to remember just what had occurred the night before; when he could not recall anything very distinctly, he felt the first twinge of fear that he had known for years. "Lordy me! I wonder what kinda fool I made of myself, anyway!" he thought distressfully.
We returned to camp, laden with all that our teams could haul, besides the three wagons I had from Dorsey. There was a deal that we could not move away. I took a forty-gallon cask of honey and a quantity of whisky and brandy from Dorsey. The bee stands, improvements, and farming utensils I turned over for the use of what settlers remained behind at Garden Grove.
"Cats," said Dana Da, with a hiccough, for he had discovered the Englishman's whisky bottle. "Cats and cats and cats! Never was such a Sending. A hundred of cats. Now give me ten more rupees and write as I dictate." Dana Da's letter was a curiosity. It bore the Englishman's signature, and hinted at cats at a Sending of cats. The mere words on paper were creepy and uncanny to behold.
When I'm at home plowing corn on summer afternoons, this Geers is away somewhere at some track with all the people gathered about and waiting. To me it would be like being drunk all the time, but you see he isn't drunk. Whisky could make him stupid. It couldn't make him drunk. There he sits hunched up like a sleeping dog.
Burt Brownlee was a big man, but he was not of great weight. Lance bound him to the saddle with his own riata, revived him with a little more whisky, and started for Conley's, who lived nearest. It was ten miles to Conleys, as riders guessed the distance.
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