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Down in the camp half a thousand bohunks were watching every move. The Indians had dismounted. He was pointing across the trestle. His squaw seemed to hesitate. "If I made a sound like a bottle of fire-water," grinned Torrance, "he'd beat the record." "You're not to let them have a drop. Now remember, daddy." "The nearest bar's too far away to waste it on an Indian, my dear.
Boullaye le Gouze mentions that in 1644 the print of St. Fin Bar's foot might be seen on a stone in the cemetery of the Cathedral of Cork; it has long since disappeared. In the Killarney region is the promontory of Coleman's Eye so called after a legendary person who leapt across the stream, and left his footprints impressed in the solid rock on the other side.
He peered out and shook his head, waving the intruders away. Jim shook the knob and glowered back. The waiter, who, in the classic phrase, was "none other than" Skip Magruder, unlocked the door. "Nothin' doin', folks," said Skip. "Standin' room only. Not a room left." "I don't want any of your dirty rooms," said Jim. "I want some gasolene." "Bar's closed," said Skip, who had a nimble wit.
The shore's bad enough, and the bar's a mean place to escape on, but the wreckers used to make it worse." And Dab launched out into a slightly exaggerated description of the terrors of the Long Island coast in old times and new, and of the character of the men who were formerly the first to find out if anything or anybody had gone ashore.
"Look here, Sheen," he said, "we've come to the conclusion that this has got a bit too thick." "You mustn't talk in that chatty way, Clayton," interrupted Linton. "'Prisoner at the bar's' the right expression to use. Why don't you let somebody else have a look in? You're the rottenest president of a court-martial I ever saw." "Don't rag, Linton," said Clayton, with an austere frown.
He strode straight up to the throne of the Bar; and once more he spoke from sheer impulse: "The Aradna has spoken true, O Senestro, or sinister, or whatever you may be called. I demand fair hearing! It is my due; for I have come from another world. I follow the Jarados!" If Watson had supposed that he had taken the Bar's measure, he was mistaken.
Cousin Egbert by now was looking slightly disturbed, or outré, as the French put it, but tries to conceal same under an air of sparkling gayety, laughing freely at every little thing in a girlish or painful manner. "Yes," says he coquettishly; "that Sandy scoundrel is taking it fast out of one pocket, but he's putting it right back into the other. The wheel's loss is the bar's gain."
"What do they call it a bar for, then?" asked the beery person; "a bar's a bar, isn't it?" "Yes, a bar's a bar, and you've got a lot to learn yet. What do they call the speaker 'the speaker' for?" "Because he can speak, of course," said the beery gentleman. "Shut up, man," said Cowan; "don't show your ignorance, and let me go on with the argument. It's not that at all."
"I made a noose on one eend o' it, and after about a score o' trials I at last flung the noose over the head o' one o' the bars, and drew it tight. I then sot to work to pull the bar nearer. If that bar's neck wan't well stretched I don't know what you'd call stretchin', for I tugged at it about an hour afore I could get it within reach.
Starratt started to wave a mingled greeting and farewell when his raised hand fell heavily against his side in the polished depths of the bar's flawless mirror loomed the unwelcome figure that had pursued him all day!... He went over and joined his friends. He had one drink ... two ... another. Then he lost count ... but the supply seemed inexhaustible.
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