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Updated: June 22, 2025
By the way, it would be rather funny if he met the other nine out there on a kopje, wouldn't it? He might take them prisoners, or they might capture him. Either way the situation would have its comic possibilities. Miss Goold lived that part of her life which was not spent at political meetings or in the office of the Croppy in a villa at Killiney.
All the while the question remained in the balance as to what we were to do for our hats, and for the myriad baggage involved in the expedition. We finally decided to write a minute inventory of what was indispensable, and to send it to Julia by the faithful hand of Mrs. Coolahan's car-driver, one Croppy, with whom previous expeditions had placed us upon intimate terms.
There is not so much as a shoneen publican in a country town left who believes in the ranting of O'Rourke and his litter of blind whelps. Ireland is simply crying out for light and leading, and the Croppy is going to give both. You always wanted to serve Ireland. Now I am offering you the chance. I don't say you ought to thank me, though you will thank me to the day of your death.
You know or perhaps you don't, for I am afraid I never told you he remembered that he had carefully concealed his connection with the Croppy from his friends at Ballymoy, and paused I have done some little writing. Oh, nothing very much not a book, or anything like that, only a few articles for the press. Well, a friend of mine has got me the offer of a post in connection with a weekly paper.
I know it's all the same to you which language you write in. Do us half a column every fortnight or so on Western life and politics. Hyacinth was absurdly elated by Miss Goold's praise. He made up his mind to contribute regularly to the Croppy, and had visions of a great future as a journalist, or perhaps a literary exponent of the ideas of Independent Ireland.
A violent jerk nearly pitched me off the car, as Croppy dragged the white horse into the opposite bank; the umbrella flew from my hand and revealed to me the Dean's bearded coachman sitting on the road scarcely a yard from my feet, uttering large and drunken shouts, while the covered car hurried back towards the village with the unforgettable yell of Miss McEvoy bursting from its curtained rear.
He seen me mother one day cleaning fish, I b'lieve she was, below on the quay an' nothing would howld him but he should dhraw out her picture!" Croppy laughed unfilially. "Well, me mother was mad.
See her from here though. Popped corks, splashes of beerfroth, stacks of empties. On the smooth jutting beerpull laid Lydia hand, lightly, plumply, leave it to my hands. All lost in pity for croppy. With a cock with a carra. Tap. Tap. Tap. I hold this house. Amen. He gnashed in fury. Traitors swing. The chords consented. Very sad thing. But had to be. Get out before the end.
George Lidwell, eyelid well expressive, fullbusted satin. Kernan. Si. The sighing voice of sorrow sang. His sins. Since Easter he had cursed three times. You bitch's bast. And once at masstime he had gone to play. Once by the churchyard he had passed and for his mother's rest he had not prayed. A boy. A croppy boy. Bronze, listening, by the beerpull gazed far away. Soulfully.
Meg Morton knew I was against her about you, Miles women always know these things. And yet she held her tongue when she could have said something true that I'd rather not have talked about. You'll hold your tongue, old chap, and so will Aunt Mary. I've got her hair; got it on this minute. That's why she's such a croppy." Lady Mary sat down on the nearest chair and sighed deeply.
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