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Updated: June 16, 2025
L'ave him lie, an' l'ave the years av ver life count him out; fur the day you die, he dies, an' not wan shake o' the mixer sooner! G'wan, now, fur the rub-down. Ye've faught yer lasht round, if ye ain't a fool!" He had been a fool. He had imagined that he could control himself, and practise the moderation that other men practised when they chose.
A man a safe man, that'll do what he's told to do will be at Ford's heels till this thing do be settled. And now for yourself: 'tis betther that ye kape dark. Four of us know that you're in the camp no wan else need know. I've a room and a bed, and ye'll be nadin' the lasht, I'm thinking."
This was readily admitted by the housemaid with its corollary that anything intrusted in confidence to the bosom of the laundress was as good as locked in the mute confines of the tomb. With these time-honored preliminaries the crisis above stairs as seen from below stairs was promptly bared to the scalpel. "Whin he come home lasht night He was here," the housemaid imparted in a whisper.
I'm about to espoushe my fair ward and this is positively my lasht appearance en bout I know and am fully aware abondance de bien ne nuit until a better comes. To-night will be my finale de-bauch sho; tell the red beauty to come here." He sat down upon the table and gazed with heavy, drooping lids upon the dancing girl that came toward him.
"Come now, Gerald," pleaded Jack, "tell us how we are doing?" "Shure, Oi don't want to discourage ye intirely," replied Gerald, "but ye didn't do any betther than three minutes in the lasht moile." "Three minutes!" shouted Don; "did we do it in that?" "Hurrah!" cried Jack; "we'll be in it yet." "In what?" asked Dick. "In the water," chuckled Jack.
"Hod picks up a cleaver an' makes fer th' dure, wid us follyin' um, afther providin' oursilves wid what utinsils wuz layin' handy a scythe here an' an axe there, an' some wan ilse wid a pitchfork. Rad brung up lasht wid a sixteen-pound posht-maul, bein' in no hurry at all fer another luk.
"Who lucked afther um loike a brother an' loved um more an' who fought an' swore an' laughed an' dhrank wid um trough all th' plague-ridden counthry from Kashmir to th' say an' who wropped um in his blanket f'r th' lasht toime an' helped burry um wid his eyes open f'r he'd wished ut so on th' long, brown slope av a rock-pocked Punjab hill, ranged round tin deep wid th' dead naygers av Hira Kal?"
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