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"What's this 'ere old-fashion'd thing? Portrait of your great-grandmother? Hum! Not 'arf bad-looking fice, neither." I think my eyes must have been blazing like hot coals. But I did my best to control my trembling mouth, and when he asked me how much I wanted on the miniature I answered, with a gulp in my throat: "Two pounds ten, if you please, sir." "Couldn't do it," said the pawnbroker.
'Na, not above eighteen months; ain't it disgriceful? Thet's wot the doctor at the 'orspital says ter me. I 'ad ter go ter the 'orspital. You should have seen 'ow it bled! it bled all dahn' my fice, and went streamin' like a bust waterpipe.
"Why why, Gib, we thought you was headed south by this time," Scraggs sputtered, for something told him great events portended. "You dirty dawg! You little fice! You figgered on breakin' my heart an' sendin' me off on a wild-goose chase, didn't you?" Mr. Gibney leaped and his great hand closed over Captain Scraggs's collar. "Own up," he bellowed. "Where'd you git this dope about me an' Pinky?
"'E don't live 'ere, 'e lives at West-'Am with 'is ornt." "Would you give me his address, I won't interrupt the Professor if he is not well?" "Who may you be, I don't remember your fice?" "I know Mr. Owen at Oxford, I have never been here before."
"'E 'asn't got no arms 'e 'asn't got nothink, not so much as 'is blinkin' latch-key." "Very good. Get back on yer post. I'll tike charge o' this one." Grounding his own rifle, the corporal fixed its bayonet, then employed it in a gesture of unpleasant significance. "'Bout fice," he ordered. "March. Yer can drop yer 'ands but don't go forgettin' I'm right 'ere be'ind yer."
"Do they come like a hurricane, and disappear again like an April shower?" "That's about it," answered Shorty disdainfully. "That's the way with all cavalry, dad-burn 'em. They're like a passel o' fice pups. They're all yelp and bark, and howl and showin' o' teeth. They're jest goin' to tear you to pieces.
Even the press of Canada that Christ-forsaken land of bow-legged half-breeds which continues to lick the No. 7 goloshes of old Gilly Brown's leavings because it lacks sufficient sand to set up for itself barks across the border like a mangy fleabitten fice yawping at a St. Bernard.
So remarkable was the number of species that we both began to comment upon the fact, to greet the animals, to bid them farewell, as though they were reporting in order from the jungle to bid us God-speed. Half in earnest we waved our hands to them and shouted our greetings to them in the native punda milia, kongoni, pa-a, fice, m'pofu, twiga, simba, n'grooui, and the rest.
"She's pretty an' clean, an' she won't drink a drop o' nothin'. If she was treated kind she'd be cheerfler. She's got a round fice an' light 'air an' eyes. 'Er 'air's curly. P'raps yer'd like 'er." "Take me to see her." "She'd look better to-morrow," cautiously, "when the swellin's gone down round 'er eye." Dart started and it was because he had for the last five minutes forgotten something.
He is but a mouthful of sweetened wind, a painted echo, an oratorical hurdy-gurdy that plays the music of others. He's as innocent of original ideas as a Mexican fice of feathers. He gets down on the muddy pave and wrangles with the "locus" preachers. He's a theological shyster lawyer who takes advantage of technicalities. He is not a philosopher he's emphatically "a critic fly."
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