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Updated: June 5, 2025
Christmas is a jolly time!" Santa's laughter was so real and his enjoyment so genuine that the children beamed with happiness. It seemed as if their dreams had really come true. "Here's a package for Mary Connelly," he said, taking off his pack; "and here's one for Peter Myers." The children hesitated a moment, and then went forward to receive their gifts.
"I was afraid it had gone through your head." "I wish it had! You have bade a scarecrow of be for life!" he gasped. "What's the trouble here, Captain Passford?" asked Dr. Connelly, presenting himself at the door of the cabin. "Didn't I hear the report of a firearm in this direction just now?"
The moment his coming was announced, Connelly was ushered in and Brick shut off short. A nurse and doctor were with the sturdy little Irishman, and he needed but brief instruction as to what was wanted. Taken to the trestle and bidden to look upon the face of the deceased and say, if he could, who it was, Connelly looked long and earnestly, and then turned feebly but calmly to the attentive array.
That moment bound Whit Hurtle and Frank Connelly into a far closer relation than the one between player and manager. I sat silent for a while, listening to the drowsy talk of the other players and the rush and roar of the train as it sped on into the night. "Thank you, old chap," I replied. "It wouldn't have been like you to throw me down at this stage. Whit, you're in trouble?" "Yes."
"Whit's not in shape. He's not right. He's ill or something is wrong. I'm worried sick about him." "Why Mr. Connelly!" exclaimed Nan. She turned quickly toward me. I crowded on full canvas of gloom to my already long face. "I'm serious, Nan. The lad's off, somehow. He's in magnificent physical trim, but he can't keep his mind on the game. He has lost his head.
Stuyvesant's right hand grasped the blue collar at the throat, the long, slender fingers gripping tight, and half shot, half lifted the amazed recruit across the swaying platform and into the reeling car ahead. There he plumped his captive down into a seat and sent for the corporal. Connelly came, rubbing his eyes, and took in the situation at a glance.
"You don't seem to know who I am," he said. I confessed my ignorance. "Well," he said, "I'm Connelly, the prize fighter!" "Then you're what your profession calls a 'bruiser'." "Sure!" he replied. "Probably you are not aware, Mr. Connelly, that the Bible has something to say about bruisers."
"Ann Bogans was plinty here once, then, God rest them! There was two Ann Bogans, mother and daughter, lived down by Flaherty's when I first come here. They died in the one year, too; 't is most thirty years ago," said Bridget Connelly, in her most friendly tone.
For three days he had waited in vain, and it was partly, at least, on Jack's account that Mr. Hayes was in Ireland at all. When Jack sailed from New York he had bound Harold by a solemn promise to spend a few weeks at Lisnahoe on his next visit to Europe. Miss Connelly, who had accompanied her brother on his American tour, had echoed and indorsed the invitation.
There was no question as to the identity of the soldier who died in Filipino uniform. Not only did Stuyvesant recognize him, but so did Ray and Trooper Mellen, and Connelly, fetched over from the north side to make assurance doubly sure. It was Sackett-Murray, gambler, horse-thief, house-robber, deserter, biter, murderer, and double-dyed traitor.
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