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Updated: May 2, 2025
He had come to the Ridge from the South, from that part of the South that carried its pistol in its hip pocket and made a large and serious matter of its honour, that was obvious; he had paid Ezra Lane two thousand dollars for the Banner, that was a matter of record; and he had marched with some grandeur into General Hendricks' bank one Saturday and had clinked out five thousand dollars in gold on the marble slab at the teller's window, and that was a matter attested to by a crowd of witnesses.
The candlesticks thrust into the crevices of the gravel strata lit up faintly the half dozen moving figures befouled with sweat and with wet gray mould. The picks struck into the loose gravel with a yielding shock. The long-handled shovels clinked amidst the piles of bowlders and scraped dully in the heaps of rotten quartz.
And the two old gentlemen held out their lights towards it, and each of them thought, "I am glad my brother does not know that the cask is nearly empty;" for it returned a most unpromising sound when it was struck, and the patch of moisture beneath it showed that it had evidently been leaking for many years. At the end of the bottle, they got up and clinked their glasses together.
A second glass was brought in by a servant, and I had to drink to my host before beginning our interview. "Mr. Ward sent you," said he to me in a jovial tone. "Good; let us drink to Mr. Ward's health." I clinked glasses with him, and drank in honor of the chief of police. "And now," demanded Elias Smith, "what is worrying him?"
Bill's naked shoulder cannoned into him, charging, and Bill's revolver clinked against his own. Rawling reeled to the stair-head, aiming as Bill caught at the man's shirt; but the cockney fell backward, crumpling down, his face purple, his teeth displayed. "In the head!" said Bill, and bent to look, pushing the plastered curls from a temple.
"Ah well," said Ignatius Gallaher, cheerfully, "here's to us and to old times and old acquaintance." They clinked glasses and drank the toast. "I met some of the old gang today," said Ignatius Gallaher. "O'Hara seems to be in a bad way. What's he doing?" "Nothing," said Little Chandler. "He's gone to the dogs." "But Hogan has a good sit, hasn't he?" "Yes; he's in the Land Commission."
Pertelay took me to a small inn, which was crammed with Hussars, Grenadiers and soldiers of every sort. We were served with a meal, and on the table was placed an enormous bottle of red wine of the most violent nature. Pertelay poured me a glassful. We clinked glasses.
We clinked glasses, and talked with greater freedom, although the postulant still spoke under his breath it was a habit that he had fallen into. We were interrupted by a scuffling outside, and by the opening of the door. A couple of monks in brown frocks were on the threshold.
He turned to Harpending and Dore. "I'll have yours ready in a minute." Once more he vanished within. Robert picked up the bag allotted to him. It was very heavy. As he lifted it to his shoulder, the contents clinked. "Gold coin," said his father, significantly. "What if we're caught?" asked the boy, half fearfully. Ralston, reappearing, heard the question. "You won't be," he said.
Steel clinked in his hands. And Jacques Dupont, terror in his heart, was trying to see as he groped to his knees. The steel snapped over his wrists. And then he heard a voice close over him. It was the voice of Reese Beaudin. "And this is your final punishment, Jacques Dupont to be hanged by the neck until you are dead.
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