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Updated: June 22, 2025
The men crowded through the door, eager for some new excitement. Lord Dunseveric and Captain Twinely followed as quickly as they could. There was another shriek, a sound of blows and cursing. Then men's voices rose above the tumult. "Down with the damned croppy." "Throttle him." "Knife him." "Hold him now you've got him." "Take a belt for his arms." "Ah, here's Tarn with the torches."
No doubt if he had made his confession to Augusta Goold he would have been overwhelmed with passionate wrath or withered by a superb contemptuous stare. Then he could have worked himself to anger in return. But this! 'You will never speak to any of us again, she went on. You will be ashamed even to read the Croppy. You will wear a long black coat and gray gloves.
It was on Saturday evening that the Canon returned with his good news, and on Sunday morning Hyacinth received a letter from Miss Goold. 'You have no doubt heard, she wrote, 'that we have got a new editor for the Croppy Patrick O'Dwyer, Mary's brother. Of course, you remember Mary and her unpoetical hysterics the morning after the Rotunda meeting. The new editor is a splendid man.
Johnnie West had just fired his second shot and killed a fine three-year-old heifer, when he looked and saw old Croppy lying there, and I stretched out beside him, apparently dead. The first thing I knew after the fall, Johnnie West was sitting by my side slapping me in the face with his hand.
This was the first time I had ever heard the war-whoop, and it fairly made my hair stand on end. Some of our crowd had seen the Indians while yet a distance off, and when the men yelled "Indians! boys, Indians!" I made a bee-line for Croppy, who had by this time fed himself away about fifty yards from camp. When Col. Fremont saw me start on the run, he asked me where I was going.
But why did you never tell me what you were doing? I should have been deeply interested in anything you wrote. Hyacinth's conscience smote him. 'The truth is, that I was sure you wouldn't approve of the paper I wrote for. It is the Croppy, the organ of the extreme left wing of the Nationalist party. It is Miss Goold Augusta Goold who now offers me work on that paper.
O, draw him out, Martin, Mr Power said eagerly. Wait till you hear him, Simon, on Ben Dollard's singing of The Croppy Boy. Immense, Martin Cunningham said pompously. His singing of that simple ballad, Martin, is the most trenchant rendering I ever heard in the whole course of my experience. Trenchant, Mr Power said laughing. He's dead nuts on that. And the retrospective arrangement.
Croppy was firm and circumstantial in laying the blame on me and the sketching umbrella. "Sure, I seen the horse wondhering at it an' he comin' up the hill to us. 'Twas that turned him." The dissertation in which the Dean's venerable coachman made the entire disaster hinge upon the theft of the breeching was able, but cannot conveniently be here set down. For my part, I hold with Julia.
Among other names appeared: 'Hyacinth Conneally, B.A., T.C.D., deacon, by the Bishop of Ripon, for the curacy of Kirby-Stowell. Shortly afterwards the Croppy printed the following verses, signed 'M.O'D.: 'EIRE TO H. C. 'Bight across the low, flat curragh from the sea, Drifting, driving sweeps the rain, Where the bogborn, bent, brown rushes grow for me, Barren grass instead of grain.
He bent over her, put his arms round her neck, raised her head, and kissed her lips. "Hush, Peg, hush," he whispered. "There's a musket on the road in front of you, sergeant." Neal recognised Captain Twinely's voice. "There might be some damned croppy lurking in the meadow there. Dismount and beat him up. Hey! but we'll have some sport hunting him across country if he runs.
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