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Updated: June 21, 2025
Splinters grabbed the container and unsnapped it. "No, you don't," he growled. "We have to make him talk," Stan said thickly. His head was beginning to feel light and his tongue thick. The corrugated dome of the Nissen hut was wavering and swaying. At that moment the door burst open. "Sure, an' I told you the rat would come back here!" That was O'Malley's bellow. "And there the spalpeen is!"
"Paganistic?" interrupted the other sharply, joy and fright rising over him. "Older, older by far," was the rejoinder, given with a curious hush and a lowering of the voice. The suggestion rushed into full possession of O'Malley's mind. There rose in him something that claimed for his companions the sea, the wind, the stars tumultuous and terrific. But he said nothing.
I was preparing to visit the town on the following morning, when my attention was attracted by a dialogue which took place beneath my window. "I say, my good friend," cried a mounted orderly to Mike, who was busily employed in brushing a jacket, "I say, are you Captain O'Malley's man?" "The least taste in life o' that same," replied he, with a half-jocular expression.
It was plain that he recognized the truth of O'Malley's words, but he was convulsed with rage. "Good!" he cried. "I see my dreams dissolve, but I am not the first great man to trade an empire for a woman. Antony, the Roman general, laid his honor in a woman's arms. I had a shining destiny, but Mexico will be the sufferer by my betrayal.
His wide jaws flashed in upon the terrier's throat just as O'Malley's boot took him in the rear. "If ye touch that dog again, my man, I'll break your jaw for you," came from the sergeant in a hoarse growl. Now O'Malley was a disciplined man, and the sergeant was his official superior. But, as it happened, the matter was now taken out of his hands.
He put his own things back and did the same with O'Malley's. There would be no rush about making O'Malley out a dead man. Getting into his uniform he headed for the mess. He was suddenly very hungry. Walking into the little dining room he halted and his mouth dropped open. At a table, with four youngsters listening open-mouthed to his talk, sat O'Malley.
Millie Whitcomb, of the fancy goods and notions, beckoned me with her finger. I had been standing at Kate O'Malley's counter, pretending to admire her new basket-weave suitings, but in reality reveling in her droll account of how, in the train coming up from Chicago, Mrs. Judge Porterfield had worn the negro porter's coat over her chilly shoulders in mistake for her husband's.
Chet jerked at O'Malley's shoulder with his metal-cased hand and pointed. "Set her down!" he ordered "Let me out there! We can't put the ship down where those lights are; the throat is too narrow; there may be air-currents that would smash us on a sharp rock. I'll go down! You wait! I'll be back." He was opening the inner door of the entrance port.
This, of course, was purely a clairvoyant effect upon the mind O'Malley's divining faculty visualized the spiritual traits of the man's dilating Self. But, nevertheless, the truth remained that somehow he increased. He grew; became interiorly more active, alive, potent; and of this singular waxing of the inner spirit something passed outwards and stood with rare dignity about his very figure.
As the years went by he avoided, with more and more scorn, that part of the world which he denominated Philistine, and consorted only with the fellows who flocked about Jim O'Malley's saloon. He was pleased with solitude, or with these convivial wits, and with not very much else beside. Jim O'Malley was a sort of Irish poem, set to inspiring measure.
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