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"Sunny's a bright lad," he said, while Toby softly exploded with laughter in the doorway. But the gambler was bent on the purpose in hand, and promptly dismissed the loafer's fairy-story from his mind. "Here, get around and bear a hand," he cried, indicating the pile on the table. "You, Toby, quit laffin' an' git a holt on them clean laundry. An' say, don't you muss 'em any.
They all were of the lower orders; one or two respectably dressed, but most of them poverty-stricken, the men in their ordinary loafer's or laborer's attire, the women with their poor, shabby shawls drawn closely about them; faded untimely, wrinkled with penury and care; nothing fresh, virgin-like, or hopeful about them; joining themselves to their mates with the idea of making their own misery less intolerable by adding another's to it.
The loafer's picturesque mind had drawn heavily on its resources, and Birdie's principles had undergone a queer metamorphosis. So much so, that she would now have had difficulty in recognizing them. Sunny watched him reading with smiling interest. He was looking for those lights and shades which he hoped his illuminating phraseology would inspire. But Scipio was in deadly earnest.
Discharge from the service as medically unfit, some miserable pension insufficient to command any pleasures but those of drink, a loafer's life, and a pauper's grave. Perhaps the regiment the officers, that is to say would succeed in getting him work, and would from their own resources supplement his pension.
It's his kids an' his wife. Mackinaw! It makes me sick. It does sure. Here's us fellers without a care to our souls, while that pore sucker's jest strugglin' an' strugglin' an' everythin's wrong with him wrong as oh, hell!" For once Sandy forgot his malicious jibe at the loafer's expense. And Toby, too, forgot his pleasantry.
The history of this loafer's privilege I have not obtained, and it would be interesting to learn by what authority he is there, for he has no uniform and he accepts any sum you give him. If all the hangers-on of the Roman Catholic Church, in Italy alone, who perform these parasitical functions and stand between man and God, could be gathered together, what a huge and horrible army it would be!
Yes, David Milliken was sitting all alone on the loafer's bench at the door, and why wasn't he at prayer-meetin' where he ought to be? She was glad she chanced to have on her clean purple calico, and that Timothy had insisted on putting a pink Ma'thy Washington geranium in her collar, for it was just as well to make folks' mouth water whether they had sense enough to eat or not.
Some well-meaning missionaries are shocked and scandalized at what seems to them incurable perversity and race degeneration. It is nothing of the sort. There are reasons, good reasons, for the worst that we find in any Hell-fer-Sartin or Loafer's Glory. All that is the inevitable result of isolation and lack of opportunity.
They all were of the lower orders; one or two respectably dressed, but most of them poverty-stricken, the men in their ordinary loafer's or laborer's attire, the women with their poor, shabby shawls drawn closely about them; faded untimely, wrinkled with penury and care; nothing fresh, virgin-like, or hopeful about them; joining themselves to their mates with the idea of making their own misery less intolerable by adding another's to it.
"Arthur!" shouted that atrocious Plickaman, "the loafer's name's Aminadab, after that old Jew, his grandfather." Saccharissa looked at him and smiled contemptuously. I tried to smile. I could not. Aminadab was my name. That old dotard, my grandfather, had borne it before me. I had suppressed it carefully. "Aminadab's his name," repeated the Colonel.
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