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Updated: May 1, 2025
"'He won't be back, says Micky, when he's puttin' up the fork. "'Now, look-a here, I says, 'you got to cut this rough stuff, if you works fur me. "'Aw, you go to hell! says Micky to me. "Right then I gets him by the collar, 'n' takes a bat from the rack. I works on him till the bat's wore out 'n' then reaches fur another. Micky ain't opened his face. I wears that one out 'n' grabs another.
"No," said the latter suddenly. "Dat-a not sharp no! Look-a 'ere; you see dis?" He drew his own knife, and showed it pointing towards Conroy in a damp, swarthy hand, whose knuckles bulged above the haft. His rough, spatulate thumb rasped along it, drawing from it the crepitation that proves an acute edge. "Carve him like-a da pork," he said, in his stage-conspirator's whisper.
"Bedad, I might so," said Norah; "'twas on'y thirty shillin', but it 'ud take up a good bit of room. And look-a, Mr. Tarpey, couldn't we lave the rest of the page clane? As like as not the bosthoon wouldn't be botherin' his head spellin' out the half of it." The adoption of this course expedited Norah's love-letter to a happy close.
"Look-a that one with the spotted panth! Look at him throw kitheth!" "They's man-eatin' lions in that cage see the lady sittin' with 'em!" "See that man top o' the band waggin that shoots up his neck yards quick! See him shorten it again!" Miss Theodosia saw all, against her will.
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