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Updated: May 8, 2025
'Don't tantalise wid talkin' av dhrink, or I'll shtuff you into your own breech-block an' fire you off! grunted Mulvaney. Ortheris chuckled, and from a niche in the veranda produced six bottles of gingerade. 'Where did ye get ut, ye Machiavel? said Mulvaney. ''Tis no bazar pop. ''Ow do Hi know wot the Orf'cers drink? answered Ortheris. 'Arst the mess-man.
Come and 'ave a split gingerade." The delicious beverage was three shillings the bottle. She frowned, but hesitated. He persisted; she ended by giving in. Weeks and weeks since she had walked with a young man! The Dutchman's saloon was closed and barricaded; its owner had made tracks to his Transvaal friends at the beginning of the siege. But the aromatic-beer cellar was one of the places open.
He rapped a little awkwardly upon the bulging left breast-pocket, "To the bloomin' end, wotever it may be!" "Oh, you silly, you!" She found him ridiculous and tragic, and so touching all at once that the gibe ended in a sob. It was not the stinging effervescence of the gingerade that made her choke and brought the smarting tears to her eyes. It was envy of that other girl.
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