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Updated: May 27, 2025
At the crossing of the path down from the house, I paused and lingered on the glimpse of one of the corner towers of the great showy palace. I was muttering something I listened to myself. It was: "Mulholland, Mrs. Mulholland and the four little Mulhollands."
The rest is off my beat, and I don't give a damn for it. I don't care which fakir gets to be president, or which swindler gets to be rich. Everything works out somehow, and the best any man can do is to mind his own business." "Mulholland Mrs. Mulholland four little Mulhollands," said I reflectively. "That's about as much as one man could attend to properly.
"Darby, my good man, and most impertinent scoundrel, if you wish to retain your present situation, never open your lips against that excellent gentleman, Mr. Hickman. Mark my words out you go, if I ever discover that you mention him with disrespect." "Well, I won't then; and God forgive me for spakin' the truth when it's not right." "Did you see the Mulhollands?" "Mr.
I went into the watch-pocket of my trousers and drew out the folded two one-thousand-dollar bills I always carried it was a habit formed in my youthful, gambling days. I handed him one of the bills. He hesitated. "For the four little Mulhollands," I urged. He put it in his pocket. I watched him and his men depart with a heavy heart. I felt alone, horribly alone, without a tie or an interest.
"Mulholland," said I, "what do you think of this business of living?" "I'll tell you, Mr. Blacklock," said he. "I used to fuss and fret a good deal about it. But I don't any more. I've got a house up in the Bronx, and a bit of land round it. And there's Mrs. Mulholland and four little Mulhollands and me that's my country and my party and my religion.
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