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Updated: June 26, 2025
Flanagan soon rejoined Connor, who, on taxing him with his flight, was informed, with an appearance of much regret, that a debt of old standing due to Curtis had occasioned it. "And upon my saunies, Connor, I'd rather any time go up to my neck in wather than meet a man that I owe money to, whin I can't pay him. I knew Phil very well, even before he spoke, and that was what made me cut an' run."
Wishing the judge, his wife, and their friends good-bye, we embarked shortly before sunset, and were able to continue our journey at night without difficulty. As we approached Castle Kearney, we were hailed by a voice which I recognised as that of Tim Flanagan, who was keeping watch on the castle walls. On hearing my reply, he quickly descended to the little postern-gate to admit us.
Then closing it, she put it in her own pocket, saying "This is confiscated till the end of the term. Flanagan and Batchelor, `Show nails." We did show nails. Mine still needed some trimming before they were satisfactory, and then I was bidden descend to the parlour for prayers.
"As soon as he got his eyes clear, right or wrong, he insisted on getting the bottle: but he was late, poor fellow, for before he got out of the garden, two of them comes up Paddy Doran and Peter Flanagan cutting one another to pieces, and not the length of your nail between them. Well, well, that was a terrible day, sure enough.
"Well, well," thought he, "whatever's the reason of her not coming, I'm sure the fault is not hers; as it is, there's no use in waitin' this night any longer." Flanagan, it appeared, was of the same opinion, for in a minute or two he made his appearance, and urged their return home.
"What time did the last train arrive from Liverpool?" asked Thomas Flanagan. "At twenty-three minutes past seven," replied Gauthier Ralph. "The next does not arrive till ten minutes after twelve." "Well, gentlemen," resumed Andrew Stuart, "if Phileas Fogg had come in the 7:23 train, he would have got here by this time. We can, therefore, regard the bet as won."
John Conerney's greyhounds, five of them, were stretched in the middle of the street, confident that they would be undisturbed. Sergeant Rahilly sunned himself on a bench outside the barrack door, and Mr. Flanagan sat in a room behind his shop nodding over the ledger in which his customers' debts were entered. Dr. Farelly sighed.
"I don't want the coroner here," she said, in a tone of annoyance. "Take her back to Flanagan; it's her work, and she must stand by it." "Is she really dead?" asked Pinky. "Looks like it, and serves Flanagan right. I've told her over and over that Nell wouldn't stand it long if she didn't ease up a little. Flesh isn't iron."
He thought of those delightful evenings in Paris when they would sit in the studio, Lawson and he, Flanagan and Clutton, and talk of art and morals, the love-affairs of the present, and the fame of the future. He felt sick at heart. He found that it was easy to make a heroic gesture, but hard to abide by its results. The worst of it was that the work seemed to him very tedious.
"I'm thankful to you, sir," said Nogher. "I'm inclined to think further," said John, "that we have proof enough against Flanagan without them." "Thin, if you think so, John, God forbid that we'd be the manes of bringin' the young men into throuble. All I'm sorry for is, that they allowed themselves to be hooked into sich a dark and murdherous piece of villainy."
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