United States or Kyrgyzstan ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
His brothers lived up to his estimate of their astuteness by never even thinking of a ruse so clever. Corky congratulated himself on getting a long start over them. Moreover, he had something else in mind. It will be disclosed later on. A week later Mr.
Then I went back to where I had been at first, because it hadn't seemed quite so bad from there. "Well?" said Corky, anxiously. I hesitated a bit. "Of course, old man, I only saw the kid once, and then only for a moment, but but it was an ugly sort of kid, wasn't it, if I remember rightly?" "As ugly as that?" I looked again, and honesty compelled me to be frank.
I pictured him sitting in his lonely studio with no company but his bitter thoughts, and the pathos of it got me to such an extent that I bounded straight into a taxi and told the driver to go all out for the studio. I rushed in, and there was Corky, hunched up at the easel, painting away, while on the model throne sat a severe-looking female of middle age, holding a baby.
Chappies introduced me to other chappies, and so on and so forth, and it wasn't long before I knew squads of the right sort, some who rolled in dollars in houses up by the Park, and others who lived with the gas turned down mostly around Washington Square artists and writers and so forth. Brainy coves. Corky was one of the artists.
Let us penetrate yet deeper into the wallet-bearer's stupidity. After depriving the Lycosa of her eggs, I throw her a ball of cork, roughly polished with a file and of the same size as the stolen pill. She accepts the corky substance, so different from the silk purse, without the least demur.
And now, what is your income?" "MY income? Why, this is positively outrageous! "Maybe I should have said 'allowance." Corky swallowed hard. "I'm not a rich man, if that's what you want to know. I'll be perfectly honest with you. I'm horribly poor." Her face brightened. "Now you are talking like a man. You must not forget I am from the West. We like frankness.
There was Courtney Van Winkle nicknamed "Corky" by his irrepressible brothers and, besides him, the twins, Jefferson and Ripley. Courtney was thirty, the twins twenty-six. Jeff and Rip were big, breezy fellows who had rowed on their college crew and rowed with the professors through five or six irksome and no doubt valueless years; Courtney was their opposite in every particular except breeziness.
Possessed of a natural wit, a stunted conscience and an indefatigable ego, he had no fear that his twelve thousand, slightly reduced by this time, would see him well along on his journey toward affluence. Corky was well known in Paris. He had spent many a day and many a dollar there.
And, oh, yes, there were warriors scarred from the fight, fellows with corky arms and mottled streaks where the lightning had struck and splintered. Only the cheesy-hearted, the warriors with maggots and grubs manufacturing punk out of heart-wood, for all the world like humans infected by evil thoughts, only the hollow hearted came down to earth with a crash in the fray.
Corky, moreover, believed in his future as an artist. Some day, he said, he was going to make a hit. Meanwhile, by using the utmost tact and persuasiveness, he was inducing his uncle to cough up very grudgingly a small quarterly allowance. He wouldn't have got this if his uncle hadn't had a hobby. Mr. Worple was peculiar in this respect.
Word Of The Day