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Updated: June 19, 2025
This Hopwood has got it all whittled down to a fine point how he's going to do right well at the racing game, and the best way is to let him try it a while. It'll cost him money to find out that a grocery store is a safer place for him than a race track. 'A whip for the horse, a bridle for the ass, and a rod for the fool's back. That's Solomon again.
Let the popping corks resound, Pass the flowing goblet round! May no mournful voice be found, Though wowzers do attack us!" DOROTHY PARKER gives vent to a poignant Hymn of Hate, anent reformers, who "think everything but the Passion Play was written by Avery Hopwood," and whose dominant desire is to purge the sin from Cinema even though they die in the effort.
Toffy lay with wide-open eyes, and there were great beads of perspiration on his forehead which Hopwood wiped away from time to time. He breathed with difficulty in short gasps, and still he never spoke. It came upon Peter with a horrible sinking of the heart that he might die before a doctor came, and without saying one word to him.
They carried Toffy into the house of the Argentine woman who burned candles to the Virgin and stuck French paper match-boxes round her shrine. They lifted him into the hut and laid him on the humble bed, and Peter dressed the wound as well as he knew how, while Hopwood in an agony hovered round them, and Ross was sending here and there to try to find a doctor.
It's a selling race and they might try to run him up on you." "In the ring, eh?" said Hopwood, straightening his collar and plucking at his tie. "Do I look all right?" But the Kid was coughing so hard that he could not answer the question. "I can't see very far with these glasses," said Hopwood, "and you'll have to tell me about it. Where is he now?" "At the post," said the Kid.
The Humane Hopwood was a very shy Sailer, being, in truth, as Leaky an old Tub as ever escaped breaking up for Fire-Wood at Lumberers' Wharfs, and we were seven weeks at Sea before we fell in with a trade-wind, and then setting every Rag we could hoist, went gaily before that Favourable breeze, and so cast anchor at Port Royal in the island of Jamaica. Captain Handsell was as good as his word.
"Running a racing stable for a man named Hopwood." "Running a stable! What does Calamity know about training horses?" "A heap more than Hopwood, I reckon, and, anyway, he'll only have one hoss to experiment on. Hopwood was over here this morning, visiting around and getting acquainted, he said. Awful gabby old coot.
It looked so different, she said, from what it had done four hours before. 'But none of us look our best at six in the morning, she added laughing, and her friends laughed too. Elsie and Cissy chattered of some project to dine with Walter, and go to the theatre afterwards, and incidentally Mildred learnt that Hopwood Blunt would not be in Paris before the end of the week.
Devil Hopwood found it easy to get the better of a poor unlettered tarpaulin, that knew well enough the way into a Wapping Alehouse, but quite lost himself in threading the mazes of a great man's Antechamber. 'Tis inconceivable how much dirty work there was done in my young days between Corinthian columns and over Turkey carpets, and under ceilings painted by Verrio and Laguerre.
"Well," said Hopwood, "it it's about time I had a little luck." "That skate has got something besides luck with him to-day!" exclaimed the Kid. "I wonder now did he try a powder after all? But no, he was quiet enough on the way to the post." Seeing nothing ahead of him but mud and water, Jockey Gillis steered Last Chance toward the inner rail. "Don't you quit on me, you crab!" he muttered.
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