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Updated: June 14, 2025
"You see, it's like this," said Pete, sinking into a chair after the door was closed: "Back where Boland lives the rules are different. They play a game something like Old Maid, and call it poker. He can sit behind me a spell and I'll explain how we play it. Then, if he wants to, he can sit in with us. Deal 'em up." "Cut for deal high deals," said Dewing.
The heat was ghastly; on their faces alkali dust, plastered with sweat, caked in the stubble of two days' growth; their eyes were red-rimmed and swollen. Boland, bruised and racked and cramped, suffered agonies. It was ten in the morning when Joe touched Pete's arm: "Qué cosa?" He pointed behind them and to the north, to a long, low-lying streak of dust. "Trouble, Don Hooaleece? I think so yes."
He knew enough about that city to know that its mysteries and possibilities of mystification were infinite. The more he thought, however, the more wretched his situation became. He saw that getting here did not exactly clear up the ground. The firm would probably employ detectives to watch him-Pinkerton men or agents of Mooney and Boland. They might arrest him the moment he tried to leave Canada.
We have all his poetry at home in a book. At this Stephen forgot the silent vows he had been making and burst out: Tennyson a poet! Why, he's only a rhymester! O, get out! said Heron. Everyone knows that Tennyson is the greatest poet. And who do you think is the greatest poet? asked Boland, nudging his neighbour. Byron, of course, answered Stephen.
You do enough reading, Heaven knows." Mr. Boland relapsed to a sagging sprawl; he adjusted his finger tips to touch with delicate nicety. "Modesty," he said with mincing primness, "is the brightest jewel in my crown. Litter and literature are not identical, really, though the superficial observer might be misled to think so.
Johnson and Boland arrived in Tucson at seven-twenty-six in the morning. Benavides met them at the station a slender, wiry, hawk-faced man, with a grizzled beard. "So this is Francis Charles?" said Stanley. "Frank by brevet, now. Pete has promoted me. He says that Francis Charles is too heavy for the mild climate, and unwieldy in emergencies." "You ought to see Frankie in his new khaki suit!
Boland, sitting beside Johnson, saw nothing of this. Neither did the lumbermen, though they were advantageously situated on the opposite side of the table. Pete played on, with every sense on the alert. He knocked over a pile of chips, spilling some on the floor; when he stooped over to get them, he slipped his gun from his waistband and laid it in his lap. His curiosity was aroused.
Boland was not behind any of the trade and some people say, indeed, that, from his knowledge of farming and the ins and outs of people's little tillage, he sometimes exacted to within a trifle of one-fifth of the produce.
The governor waved a hand behind him. "I left them at the last plantation, and rode on alone. I felt safe enough till I saw you, Boland." He smiled grimly, and a grimmer smile stole to the lean lips of the manager of Salem. "Fear is a good thing for forward minds, your honour," he said with respect in the tone of his voice and challenge in the words.
Lord Mallow said to Darius Boland, as he entered the plantation, being met by the astute American. "Sometimes, your honour," was the careful reply. "I suppose you know what Mr. Calhoun's career has been, eh?" "Oh, in a way, your honour. They tell me he is a good swordsman." The governor flushed. "He told you that, did he?" "No, no, your honour, never. He told me naught. He does not boast.
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