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"Along about ten o'clock, I should say, here comes the Dashin' Wave around the headland. I could see her luff up an' come about with her bow headed straight for the entrance between the reefs, an' th' water purlin' under her forefoot. Everything was as still as the grave, an' only the surf was swishin' up th' beach sobbin' 'Peace! Peace! and there wasn't no peace for King Gibney.
Believe me, she'd fit any chorus." "Why don't you ask Bergman?" Mr. Regan shook his hairless head. "He's dippy on 'types. This show's full of 'em: real blondes, real brunettes, bold and dashin' ones, tall and statelies, blushers, shrinkers, laughers, and sadlings. He won't stand for make-up; he wants 'em with the dew on. They've got to look natural for Bergman. That's some of 'em now."
Also he was broke, with the Dashin' Wave lyin' out in the stream off Mission Rock with a Honolulu Chinaman aboard as crew and watchman, while Bull hustled around shore tryin' to raise funds to outfit her for another trip to the Islands. He'd been beachcombin' ten days when I met him, and we took to each other right off.
"I'm better now, but I'm near wore out," said Mr Button, sitting up on the sand. "But, bedad, if I'm chased by any more things like them it's into the say I'll be dashin'. Dick, lend me your arum." He took Dick's arm and wandered over to the shade of the trees. Here he threw himself down, and told the children to leave him to sleep. They recognised that the game was over and left him.
His great grandmother'd been a half-breed Batavian nigger, and his father was Irish. Bull himself was nothin', havin' been born at sea, a thousand miles from the nearest land. However, that ain't got nothin' to do with the story. Bull McGinty was skipper an' owner of the schooner Dashin' Wave, 258 tons net register, when I met him in Shanghai Nelson's place.
And I sez, "Could you set and enjoy yourself lookin' on a fountain risin' up and dashin' jewels of spray all round you, and thinkin' that every drop wuz bein' pumped up by the weary feet of your own girl by your first wife? That poor delicate little creeter's tired feet, toilin' on hour by hour and day by day."
Riprisintatives iv th' free an' inlightened press, th' pollutyem iv our liberties, as Hogan says, bright, intilligent young journalists, iver ready to probe fraud an' sham, disgeezed as waithers, is dashin' madly about, makin' notes on their cuffs. Business is suspinded. They'se no money in Wall Sthreet. It's all at th' sacred scene.
"Hah!" says I. "Had the window marked, did he?" Simple enough to see that a trick of that kind called for an inside confederate. Who? Next minute I'm dashin' out to catch Tony, who runs express elevator No. 3. "Were the window washers at work on our floor this mornin'?" says I. "Sure!" says Tony, "What you miss?" "It was a case of direct hit," says I. "Where are they now?"
But imagine goin' along a road where you could look down thousands of feet into running water, and right up on the other side of you mountains thousands of feet high. And you between, poor specks of clay with only a breath of steam to keep you agoin' and prevent your dashin' down into that enormous abyss.
And then mebby the very next minute it would swell itself out agin, and be twenty or thirty milds acrost, rushin', hurryin', and dashin' itself along, hastenin' to the sea. Actin' as if it had sunthin' dretful pressin' and important to tell it, and mebby it had.
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