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Updated: May 23, 2025
I rose to go away, but two men in white clothes stood in front of me. The first one said, "It's him!" The second said, "So it is!" And they both laughed almost as loudly as the machinery roared, and mopped their foreheads. "We seed there was a light burning across the road, and we were sleeping in that ditch there for coolness, and I said to my friend here, 'The office is open.
"How do you do?" said I, acknowledging the introduction, "and what can I do for Mr. Dutton?" The latter, instead of replying, took out a vivid belcher handkerchief, and apologetically mopped his face. "Speak up, James Dutton," said Old Amos. "Lord!" exclaimed Dutton, "Lord! I du be that 'ot! you speak for I, Amos, du."
Sich a tiresome v'yage, too, as it must ha' been from Plymouth, i' this weather! I dunno how we came to forget to invite en nigher the hearth. Well, as I was a-sayin' " He stopped to search for his hat beneath the settle. Producing a large crimson handkerchief from the crown, he mopped his brow slowly. "The cur'ous part o't, naybours, is the sweatiness that comes over a man, this close weather."
"It won't do, Halibut," he said, grimly; "it won't do. I'm too old a soldier to be caught that way." There was a long pause. The Major mopped his brow again. "I've got it," he said at last. Halibut looked at him curiously. "We must play for first proposal," said the Major, firmly. "We're pretty evenly matched." "Chess?" gasped the other, a whole world of protest in his tones.
There was a dead silence. His mouth was vainly working, and his expression confused and despairing. The flower had wilted in his moist hand. Little streams of perspiration trickled down his face, to be mopped up by his bandanna. Such was the ordeal of talking hollow sentiment to a cool and self-possessed woman. She enjoyed the exhibition for a time, as what woman would not?
The gentleman had, in fact, just arrived; but he seemed perfectly at home as he laid down his hat on the marble-topped bureau, mopped his face, took a glass of iced water at a gulp, chose a cigar, and sank down gradually on the bed. Mr. Wetherell recognized him instantly as the father of the celebrated Cassandra.
His probity was undisputed; his ability was regarded with awe; but as he had a sharp tongue and was no respecter of persons, there was of course an opposition. John took a seat on the wooden box he had just been cording, and mopped his brow. His full cheeks were crimson, partly with exertion, partly with sudden annoyance. "What's 'ee been sayin' now?
They went back to camp when the field of strife had been a little mopped up and made presentable, and the Brigadier, who saw himself a Knight in three months, was the only soul who was complimentary to them. The Colonel was heart-broken and the officers were savage and sullen.
He is slim and rosy and dimply, with yellow curls just mopped all over his head, and he has blue eyes the color that the sky is hardly ever; but from what Roxanne says about him I hardly see how he will live to grow up. He falls in and sits in and down and on and breaks and eats things in the most terrible fashion, and he has all sorts of creeps and crawls in his pocket all of the time.
He forced the Mexicans out of his way and, entering the living-room, closed the door behind him. "Well?" his two friends questioned, anxiously. "I've done all I can. The rest is out of our hands." The little man sat down heavily and mopped his forehead. "What does he say?" "He told me to come here and wait. I never saw a man so torn, so distracted." "Then he is wavering. Oh-h!"
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