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Updated: June 20, 2025
I am as little proud as any man in the world: but there must be distinction, sir; and as it is my lot and Clive's lot to be a gentleman, I won't sit in the kitchen and boose in the servants'-hall. As for that Tom Jones that fellow that sells himself, sir by heavens, my blood boils when I think of him! I wouldn't sit down in the same room with such a fellow, sir.
O' course it's my name. My father was billiard-marker at Casey's Hotel, Dandaloo," said the old man with conscious pride. "A swell he had been, but the boose done him up, like many a better man. He used to write to people over in England for money, but they never giv him any." "Where did he write to?" asked Carew, looking at the uncouth figure with intense interest.
He wore a very high double collar and a wide-brimmed bowler hat. "Hello, Crofton!" said Mr. Henchy to the fat man. "Talk of the devil..." "Where did the boose come from?" asked the young man. "Did the cow calve?" "O, of course, Lyons spots the drink first thing!" said Mr. O'Connor, laughing. "Is that the way you chaps canvass," said Mr.
Gullick, the widowed landlady, or rather manager, was as eager to hear all the story of the finding of poor Dicky Shields as any of the crowd outside had been. Again and again the narrative was repeated, till conjecture once more began to take the place of assertion. "I wonder," asked one of the men, "how old Dicky got the money for a boose?" "The money, ay, and the chance," said another.
We'd brought a mob of cattle down for a squatter the other side of Mulgatown. We camped about seven miles the other side of the town, waitin' for the station hands to come and take charge of the stock, while the boss rode on into town to draw our money. Some of us was goin' back, though in the end we all went into Mulgatown and had a boose up with the boss.
Here, at Dunchester, their pleasures consisted for the most part in a dog fight or some such refining spectacle, varied by an occasional "boose" at the public-house, or, in the case of those who chanced to be more intellectually inclined, by attending lectures where Socialism and other advanced doctrines were preached.
Jesus, I had to laugh at the way he came out with that about the old one with the winkers on her, blind drunk in her royal palace every night of God, old Vic, with her jorum of mountain dew and her coachman carting her up body and bones to roll into bed and she pulling him by the whiskers and singing him old bits of songs about Ehren on the Rhine and come where the boose is cheaper.
"He's out for trouble to-night," said the little mate. "Blast him if he ain't touching the boose again." "Who, the skipper?" I asked. "He's been below twice during the watch, an' each time he's gettin' worse an' worse. There he comes now to the edge of the poop." I looked and saw our old man rolling easily across the deck to the poop rail. There he stopped and bawled out loudly,
I know that fellow, says Joe, from bitter experience. Cockburn. Dimsey, wife of David Dimsey, late of the admiralty: Miller, Tottenham, aged eightyfive: Welsh, June 12, at 35 Canning street, Liverpool, Isabella Helen. How's that for a national press, eh, my brown son! How's that for Martin Murphy, the Bantry jobber? Ah, well, says Joe, handing round the boose.
How was that? The last night pa was boosed he was standing on the landing there bawling out for his boots to go out to Tunney's for to boose more and he looked butty and short in his shirt. Never see him again. Death, that is. Pa is dead. My father is dead. He told me to be a good son to ma. I couldn't hear the other things he said but I saw his tongue and his teeth trying to say it better.
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