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They want you go work now. Adios, strong mans. "'Monseer, says I, lingerin', 'will you tell a poor little Irishman this: When I set foot on your cockroachy steamer, and breathed liberal and revolutionary sentiments into your sour wine, did you think I was conspirin' to sling a pick on your contemptuous little railroad?
"A German clean? Filthy cockroachy holes, their ships are! Why, there's only one race on earth dirtier than the Germans and that's the Scots." Then he stopped dead and giggled nervously as he realized what he had said. Her eyes were blazing, her lips quivering; it was impossible for her to speak for a moment, her breath was coming in such sharp pants.
"Don't yer know 'er?" said the man, in much the same tone that Bret Harte's hero must have used when he was so taken aback to find that a stranger "Didn't know Flynn, Flynn of Virginia." "Don't yer know 'er?" he repeated, pausing in his task of scooping some black cockroachy sugar from the bottom of a bin. "That's the Hopal Queen! She's hoff South, she is. Yer'll be going in the coach, will yer?"
Look at me, another accessory, come two thousand miles on a garlicky, cockroachy banana steamer all the way from South America to connive at the sacrifice please to observe how lightly my guilt rests upon my shoulders. Only little sister I had, too, and now she's gone. Come now! take something to ease your conscience." "I don't drink just now, thanks," said Trysdale.
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