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Updated: June 5, 2025
Stalky, still on his heels, whirled like a dancing dervish to the dining-hall. "Ti-ra-la-la-i-tu! I gloat! Hear me!" Beetle spun behind him with outstretched arms. "Ti-ra-la-la-i-tu! I gloat! Hear me!" McTurk's voice cracked. Now was there or was there not a distinct flavor of beer as they shot past Mr. Prout?
And for the last five years he had had no other object in living than to feed her wants. Through some strange trick of the mind he remembered suddenly and vividly a long-forgotten scene in the back room of McTurk's, when he was McTurk's bouncer. The night before a girl had killed herself in this same back room; she made the third who had done so in the month.
"I almost put my hand on him. Wasn't he a wopper! Didn't he stink! Hullo, Turkey, what's the matter? Are you hit?" McTurk's lean face had turned pearly white; his mouth, generally half open, was tight shut, and his eyes blazed. They had never seen him like this save once in a sad time of civil war.
Cornelia showed no sign of exultation, until just as John was carrying the trout to the ice-house. Then she flashed out: "Quite a fair imitation, Mr. McTurk, is n't it?" Now McTurk's best record for the last fifteen years was seven pounds and twelve ounces. So far as McTurk is concerned, this is the end of the story. But not for the De Peysters. I wish it were.
They're ladies, my daughters, they're just out of the convent, and they don't know that there is such women in the world as come to this place. And I can't have 'em turned against their old pop. For God's sake, gentlemen, don't let my girls know!" Cahill remembered the contempt he had felt for his employer as he pulled him to his feet, but now McTurk's appeal seemed just and natural.
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