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Updated: May 9, 2025
Some of them were empty. The door of one stood ajar, and a sudden smell of disinfectant made him stop and look in. There was something lying on a bed covered by a grimy sheet. "Um m," muttered Cornish, and walked on. There had been another visitor to the malgamite works that day. Then Cornish paused for a moment near Uncle Ben's hut, and listened to "Ta-ra-ra boom-de-ay."
He rarely sought in vain. The melody was to be found serving some purpose or other at almost every theatre that winter. It was the "Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay" of its time. Some men who drink themselves to death require years and wit to complete the task. Others save time by catching pneumonia through exposure due to drink. Billy Folsom was one of the pneumonia class.
He has a long garden-implement in his hand, and he is sending up the death-rate in slug circles with a devastating rapidity. "Ta-ra-ra boom-de-ay Ta-ra-ra BOOM " And the boom is a death-knell. As it rings softly out on the pleasant spring air, another stout slug has made the Great Change. It is peculiar, this gaiety. It gives one to think. Others have noticed it, his lordship's valet amongst them.
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