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Updated: May 24, 2025
The little twin in front was labouring bravely at the hill, but its muffled exhaust was pleading unmistakably for still another change down. Barraclough knew very well that were he to accept this invitation he would be lost. The only hope was to keep in second and pray hard that the engine wouldn't conk out. A glance over his shoulder revealed the Ford bounding up the hill toward him.
Vell, then, ven Bob was put up opposite this great Eytalian man I says 'Slap 'im in the vind, Bob, 'cos I could see vid 'alf an eye that he vas as puffy as a cheesecake; so Bob he goes in, and as he comes the vorriner let 'im 'ave it amazin' on the conk.
Tweak Black Diamond by the conk!" "You let him be!" growled Reuben. "Time was you'd ha crawled to him. Now any snotty little toad can make game on him." Kit looked up at the rising voices. A fellow had seized Diamond by the nose, plucking back his head. The dead man's mouth gaped. Into the cavern of it shone the moon.
Even a conch-shell was enough of an expense to the poor colonial churches. The Montague people in 1759 paid L1 10s. for their "conk," and also on the purchase year gave Joseph Root 20 shillings for blowing the new shell. In 1785 the Whately church voted that "we will not improve anybody to blow the conch," and so the church-attendants straggled to Whately meeting each at his own time and pleasure.
Then he deliberately thrust his hand into the face beneath him. The Gentleman sat up, snatching for his sword. "Tweak his conk!" popped a Cockney voice "the conk of a lord!" And he was up and away, and down the slope with the merriest spurt of laughter. The Gentleman was on his feet in a second, pursuing, a smear of blood at his nose. Knapp heard him.
Let us suppose that once, in Thessaly, there was a genial spring, and there was a poet who sang of it. All later poets have sung the same song. "Voila tout!" That is the root of poetry. Another delusion. We hear toward evening, high in air, the "conk" of the wild-geese. Looking up, you see the black specks of that adventurous triangle, winging along in rapid flight northward.
"Oh! you sanguinary ape," cried Blue Cap. "If I had hold of you by the tail, I would spin you round like a mill just like a sling, and I would crack your conk on the pavement." "Rascally ape! he was as wicked as a man!" "There are no men so wicked as that!" "Not so wicked?" answered Pique-Vinaigre. "You forget old Cut-in-half! There was an idea!"
Perhaps it takes a wide returning sweep, in doubt; but it disappears in the north. There is no mistaking that sign. This unmusical "conk" is sweeter than the "kerchunk" of the bull-frog. Probably these birds are not idiots, and probably they turned back south again after spying out the nakedness of the land; but they have made their sign.
Those evening rides, high over Syrtis Major, toward the setting sun, became an every other day custom, harmless in itself. A carefully kept nuclear-battery motor didn't conk; the vehicle could almost fly without guidance.
The driver affirmed the fact with unnecessary heat and profanity and an amendment to the effect that he would have spoiled his fare's sanguinary conk had the outcome been less satisfactory.
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