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Updated: April 30, 2025
I did not wonder at Lestrade's opinion, and yet I had so much faith in Sherlock Holmes' insight that I could not lose hope as long as every fresh fact seemed to strengthen his conviction of young McCarthy's innocence. It was late before Sherlock Holmes returned. He came back alone, for Lestrade was staying in lodgings in the town. "The glass still keeps very high," he remarked as he sat down.
Finnerty was not, as is the case in romances, either mysterious or awful. On the contrary, it was light and pleasant, and by no means calculated to heighten McCarthy's fears; who, to say truth, however, although resolute and full of courage, would as lief been spending the evening with his friend the proctor. "Well, Vread," said one of them, "any news in the mountains?"
Proud of the honors they had won, delighted beyond words with the good times they had had, they left for home the day before the hulk of the "Sister Sue" was taken away, at Mr. McCarthy's order, and sold. "We are leaving behind us the best time we have ever had," sighed Hazel on the morning of their departure.
"I don't suppose there's any real doubt left in your mind but that this man can turn the juice off again, if he wants to?" "I don't know as he did it," persisted McCarthy stoutly. "Now, how long do you suppose you'd last if the public should get on to the fact that this hidden power was going to exert itself again unless you left town?" A slight moisture bedewed McCarthy's forehead.
"Do do you mistake me for an enlisted man?" "Oh, I did n't know; you said you were a soldier, and that's what I always heard they got. I am so glad if they give you more. I was only going to say that I believed I could get you a good place in McCarthy's store if you wanted it. He pays sixty-five dollars, and his clerk has just left."
For the more modern period, Lecky's History of England in the 18th century is excellent, and for the present century, McCarthy's History of Our Own Time, and Miss Martineau's History of England, 1815-52, are well written works.
"An' ye a Vicar Gineral." "Never mind, Ann. I'll get on somehow. Is there anything else?" "McCarthy's sick ag'in." "Well, I'll take the Holy Oils and go down there this morning." Ann was now herself again, or she wouldn't have come back so hard on the chronically dying McCarthy. "Sure, ye n'adn't do that. Ye've wasted a whole gallon of Holy Oil anointin' that omadhan four times already."
"I'm goin' down to McCarthy's stable and see if I kin git some horses to exercise." A sad look came into Eliza's eyes as she said: "You'd bettah not go, Patsy; dem hosses'll kill you yit, des lak dey did yo' pappy." But the boy, used to doing pretty much as he pleased, was obdurate, and even while she was talking, put on his ragged jacket and left the room.
I have seen Bingo approach the post, sniff, examine the ground about, then growl, and with bristling mane and glowing eyes, scratch fiercely and contemptuously with his hind feet, finally walking off very stiffly, glancing back from time to time. All of which, being interpreted, said: "Grrrh! woof! there's that dirty cur of McCarthy's. Woof! I'll 'tend to him tonight. Woof! woof!"
"My most vivid recollections of that game are McCarthy's plucky playing with his hand in a plaster cast, due to a broken bone, stopping Barclay and Bray repeatedly in spite of this handicap, and my own touchdown, after a twelve yard run, with Rinehart's 250 pounds hanging to me most of the way." I recall a trip that the Princeton team of 1898 made to West Point.
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