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Updated: June 27, 2025
The door opened a little and he could see that someone was holding the knob, talking to a soldier. He breathed heavily, his fingers were cold, but he stood up and looked straight before him, bravely. They had come to get him. Then the door opened wider and a familiar voice greeted him. "H'lo, Tommy. Well, well! Adventures never cease, huh?" Tom stood gaping.
Greeneyed monster. I know him. He's a gentleman, a poet. It's all right. PRIVATE CARR: I don't give a bugger who he is. PRIVATE COMPTON: We don't give a bugger who he is. STEPHEN: I seem to annoy them. Green rag to a bull. KEVIN EGAN: H'lo! Bonjour! The vieille ogresse with the dents jaunes. PATRICE: Socialiste! You'll get into trouble. He provokes my intelligence.
Then with a slowly dawning smile supplanting his look of astonishment, he ejaculated, "M-i-s-t-e-r C-o-n-n-e!" The man made not the slightest change in his attitude except to smile the while he worked his cigar over to the other corner of his mouth. Then he cocked his head slightly sideways. "H'lo, Tommy," said he. Mr.
"H'lo!" "What's your name, little boy?" "Ain't a little boy. I'm Carl Ericson." "Oh, are you? I'm " "I'm gonna have a shotgun when I'm fifteen." He shyly hurled a stone at a telegraph-pole to prove that he was not shy. "My name is Gertie Cowles. I came from Minneapolis. My mamma owns part of the Joralemon Flour Mill.... Are you a nice boy? We just moved here and I don't know anybody.
They said "H'lo, Dill" and "H'lo Sanders" in a manner of such slighting superiority that only the utmost familiarity could have bred a contempt so magnificent. Then, when the three were seated, Mr. Sanders thought well to add: "How's rent collecting these days, Dill? Still hustling around among those darky shanties over in Bucktown?"
That is why he was "out" when Senator Meiklejohn inquired for him. "H'lo!" he cried when he set eyes on Fowle. "My foreman bookbinder! Your folio looks somewhat battered!" "Glad it's you, Mr. Clancy," snuffled Fowle. "You can tell these cops " "Suppose you tell me," broke in the detective, with a glance at Carshaw. "Yes, Fowle, speak up," said Carshaw. "You've a ready tongue.
After all, there was something in being a lord, even in drunkenness! But this foolish, grinning, damp-mouthed thing before her, who kept making ineffectual attempts to lift his hand to his head and take off his hat, who was coming closer towards her with the inadequate movements she had once seen made by a duck when its leg had been broken! "H'lo, ole girl!" he said, standing before her at last.
It was clear that he was in some suspense, but Tom, who would have noticed the smallest insect or most indistinct footprint in the path, did not observe this. "H'lo, Slady," he said with a fine show of unconcern; "out for the early worm?" He did not fail to give a sidelong glance at Tom's pocket. "Is your headache all gone?" Tom asked.
"H'lo, Ford," Sam bethought him to say, after he had gravely taken mental note of each separate scar of battle, and had shifted his cud to the other side of his mouth, and had squeezed it meditatively between his teeth. "Feel as rocky as you look?" "Possibly." Ford's eyes forbade further personalities.
He stuttered a strange thing for an Irishman to do, by the way and retreated into The Club, where they dared not follow. "H'lo, Casey! Give yuh a chance to win back some of your losin's, if you're game to try it again," called a man from the far end of the room. Casey swore and hobbled back to him, let himself stiffly down into a chair and dropped his crutches with a rattle of hard wood.
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