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Updated: May 14, 2025
If not at the guarded Penniman table, then at the low resort next to Pegleg McCarron's of one T-bone Tommy, where they commonly devoured the carcasses of murdered beasts and made no secret of it.
"She must have married him for his money," Wilbur heard himself saying in cold, cynical tones. The illumining thought had just come. That explained it. "Sure," agreed Sam. "Why wouldn't she?" Late that afternoon, in the humble gymnasium at the rear of Pegleg McCarron's, Spike Brennon emerged from a rally in which Wilbur Cowan had displayed unaccustomed spirit.
Of course you had to go to Pegleg McCarron's to do the boxing, but Spike had warned him never to drink if he expected to get anywhere in this particular trade; not even to smoke. That he had entirely abandoned the use of tobacco at Spike's command should he considered have commended his hero to Winona's favourable notice.
"Every afternoon and me not hearing a word of it!" "If you could only say a word to him," besought Winona. "Coming from you it might have an influence for good." "I will, I will!" promised Sharon, fervently, and there was a gleam of honest determination in his quick old eyes. That very afternoon, in Pegleg McCarron's shed, he said words to Wilbur that might have an influence for good.
On that high seat, one hand grasping an iron railing at the side, sitting by grim-faced Starling Tucker in his battered hat, who drove carelessly with one hand and tugged at his long red moustache with the other, it was pleasantly appalling to reflect that he might be at any moment dashed to pieces on the road below; to remember that Starling himself, the daily associate of horses and a man of high adventure, had once fallen from this very seat and broken bones the most natural kind of accident, Starling averred, though gossip had blamed it on Pegleg McCarron's whisky.
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