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Updated: June 15, 2025
The German Emperor's fit had passed. Even he was appalled when upon that memorable morning he received the joint note of his three Allies and learnt the awful cost of that one night's fighting. He saw it through the window, got up, put his right hand on the butt of the revolver in his hip-pocket, thought hard for one fateful moment, then took it away and went out.
Walking along the street behind the Emperor one day, my curiosity was a little excited by seeing him thrust his hand into the hip-pocket of his blue trousers with sudden energy. The hip-pocket, by the way, is a modern American stupidity, associated in the popular mind with rowdyism, pistol shooting, and murder.
Yet the hair was only an outward sign of the hidden tragedy which was that, for good and all, for ever and ever, she was to be shut out from all wonderful, living, thrilling thinks. "She's gittin' grown-up," he told himself sorrowfully. OUT of a hip-pocket one morning Mr.
What other fire-horse ever mastered the intricacies of the automatic halter release? It was Silver, too, that picked from the Captain's hip-pocket a neatly folded paper and chewed the same with malicious enthusiasm. The folded paper happened to be the Company's annual report, in the writing of which the Captain had spent many weary hours. Other things besides mischief however, had Silver learned.
Peter rose, and the man did the same instantly, putting one of his hands on his hip-pocket. But even before he did it, Peter had begun speaking, in a quiet, self-contained voice: "That sounds so like Mr. Maguire, that I think we have the message at last. Go to him, and say that I have received his message. That I know him, and I know his methods.
The Padre watched him with eyes striving to conceal their anxiety. Finally, Buck put a question that seemed unnecessary. "Why d'you tell me now?" he asked. His pipe had gone out and he pushed it into his hip-pocket. The Padre's smile was rather drawn. "Because of you. Because of my friend's baby girl." "How?" "The child's name was Joan.
W. Keyse felt a little awkward, and the rifle was uncommonly heavy. The Slabberts felt it tremble, and thought about taking his hands down and reaching for that Colts six-shooter he kept in his hip-pocket. But though the finger wobbled, it was at the trigger, and Walt was not fond of risks. "Tell him, Jannje!" he spluttered once more. She had not needed a second bidding.
Isaacson knew it for a lamp fixed against the mast of the Loulia. He put his hand down to his hip-pocket. Yes, his revolver was safely there. He lit a cigar, then, moved by an after-thought, threw it away. Its tip hissed as it struck the river. He looked at that blue jewel, at the diaper of yellow below it, and he set out upon his nocturnal journey. At first he walked very slowly and cautiously.
Morris shouted and one of the cutters produced it bashfully from his hip-pocket. "Never try to force whiskey on a fainting person," Miss Cohen cried. "It might get into their lungs and suffocate 'em." "I wasn't going to," Morris said hastily, as he took a yeoman's pull at the bottle. "I am feeling faint myself." "Mir auch," Abe said, taking the bottle from his partner's grasp.
For both husband and wife fell grave at his words. It was Pelton that answered them. "I've been taught a lesson, Mr. Yesler. I'm never going to pack a gun again as long as I live, unless I'm hunting or something of that sort, and I'm never going to drink another drop of liquor. It's all right for some men, but it isn't right for me." "Glad to hear it. I never did believe in the hip-pocket habit.
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