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"So?... And it iss also by the Canadian military employed perhaps, sir?" "I believe," said Brown, carelessly, "that the British Government has taken away the Ross rifle from the Canadians and given them the regulation weapon." "So? Permit that I examine, sir?" Brown did not seem to hear him or notice the extended hand blunt-fingered, hairy, persistent.
It was blunt-fingered and broad and red, with the back covered by yellow hairs which extended down to the dabs of finger-nails. He seemed to read her mind, and in answer he took up a heavy pewter cup and held it toward her. For an instant he permitted her to scrutinize the cup, and then his fingers closed. He opened his hand and the shapeless mass of pewter fell to the floor.
At last she heard herself say, with a dry throat in which her heart was hammering: "Mercy me, Mr. Ramy!" "I want to get married," he repeated. "I'm too lonesome. It ain't good for a man to live all alone, and eat noding but cold meat every day." "No," said Ann Eliza softly. "And the dust fairly beats me." "Oh, the dust I know!" Mr. Ramy stretched one of his blunt-fingered hands toward her.
Over the shoulder of this queer looking person of whose sex it was hard to be sure Louise could see an open letter that was evidently being perused not for the first time. The hands that held the letter were red and hard and blunt-fingered, but not large. They did not look feminine, however; not in the least.
Large deft hands, a good deal like the hands of a surgeon, square, blunt-fingered, spatulate. Indeed, as you saw him at work, a wire-netted electric bulb held in one hand, the other plunged deep into the vitals of the car on which he was engaged, you thought of a surgeon performing a major operation.
Everything about him, from the big, blunt-fingered hands that held the ridiculous chick to the great muscular pillar of his neck, was in direct opposition to his task, his surroundings, and his attitude. Yet now he lolled back among his pillows, dabbling complacently at the absurd yellow toy. Humphry Ward.
"The better way," answered Bard. "Bare hands the better way!" "He has killed men with those bare hands of his. I can see 'em clear great, blunt-fingered hands, Anthony. He's coming around the side of the house. I'll go into the front room." She ran past Anthony and paused in the habitable room, spying through a crack in the wall. And Anthony stood with his eyes tightly closed, his head bowed.
He said huskily: "A joke along this line don't bring no laugh from me, governor." "I mean it, Steve. Get Anthony Bard tied hand and foot into this house so that I can talk to him safely for ten minutes, and you'll have everything I promise. Perhaps more. But that depends." The blunt-fingered hand of Nash stole across the table. "If it's a go, shake, Mr. Drew."
He saw the great, blunt-fingered hands which had killed men, which were feared through the length and breadth of the mountain-desert, stretched out to him. "Anthony Drew!" said the voice. His hand went out, feebly, by slow degrees, and was caught in a mighty double clasp.
Everything about him, from the big, blunt-fingered hands that held the ridiculous chick to the great muscular pillar of his neck, was in direct opposition to his task, his surroundings, and his attitude. Yet now he lolled back among his pillows, dabbing complacently at the absurd yellow toy. A description of his surroundings would sound like pages 3 to 17 of a novel by Mrs. Humphry Ward.
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