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Tis harrd to be something ye niver were an' niver meant to be, an' all the ould days shut up along wid your papers. Eyah! I'm growin' rusty, an' 'tis the will av God that a man mustn't serve his Quane for time an' all." He helped himself to a fresh peg, and sighed furiously. "Let your beard grow, Mulvaney," said I, "and then you won't be troubled with those notions. You'll be a real civilian."
Sure, 'twould be an awful thing to have the sin av murrder on me sowl not that 'tis murrder to kill a Dutchman that's a self-confessed pirate into the bargain. Shtill, 'tis a terrible t'ought to carry to the grave " Wham! Mr. Reardon brought his padded wrench down on his defenseless bed. "Too harrd," he told himself.
Now th' night behfure last betune say, nine an' twelve o'clock . . . fwhere was ye?" he paused "Think harrd, an' come across wid th' straight goods." A tense silence succeeded. The hobo, the cynosure of a ring of watchful expectant faces, mumbled indistinctly, "I was sleepin' up in th' loft o' th' livery-stable."
We will all go a 'moonlightin' tugither. Eyah!" he resumed reminiscently, "many's th' toime I mind me ould father God rist him! tellin' th' tales av thim days, whin times was harrd in Oireland, an' rints wint up an' th' pore was dhriven well-nigh desprit. How him an' his blood-cousin, Tim Moriarty, lay wan night for an' ould rapparee av a landlord, who'd evicted pore Tim out av house an' home.
Have thought, Sargint," sez I. "Is ut worth ut?" "Ye're a bould man," sez he, breathin' harrd. "A very bould man. But I am a bould man tu. Do you go your way, Privit Mulvaney, an' I will go mine."
'Tis harrd to be something ye niver were an' niver meant to be, an' all the ould days shut up along wid your papers. Eyah! I'm growin' rusty, an' 'tis the will av God that a man mustn't serve his Quane for time an' all. He helped himself to a fresh peg, and sighed furiously. 'Let your beard grow, Mulvaney, said I, 'and then you won't be troubled with those notions. You'll be a real civilian.
"Oh, goody, goody!" shouted little Patsy, his pale, beautiful face aglow with delight. "Poor little manny!" groaned Carroll to his wife, looking after the pair as they rode off up the trail. "It's not many ye'll be after lickin', except with yer tongue." "But, begorra," said his wife, "that's the lickin' that hurts, afther all. An' it's harrd tellin' what'll be comin' till the lad."
"An' whativer they may say o' me ways down-stairs, it's the timper of a babby I have, an' would niver throw a harrd wurrd at a dog, let alone a human. Whin they think me cross, it's only that I'm a bit quoiet, an' who can wonder? thinkin' o' me pore brother as was drownded las' summer, an' him niver out o' me moind!"
Peg Barney that cleared out the Blue Lights' jubilee meeting wid the cook-room mop last year? "Thin I knew ut was a draf' of the ould rig'mint, an' I was conshumed wid sorrow for the bhoy that was in charge. We was harrd scrapin's at any time. Did I iver tell you how Horker Kelley went into clink nakid as Phoebus Apollonius, wid the shirts av the Corp'ril an' file undher his arrum?
It's harrd to think father and mother leave their souls fightin' in their childern, cos th' love was wantin' to make them one here." Something glittered along the street as he spoke: the silver mountings of a low-hung phaëton drawn by a pair of Mexican ponies. One or two gentlemen on horseback were alongside, attendant on a lady within.
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