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Updated: June 4, 2025
"I put the last switch of tobaccy I had in the world into that pipe, just arter throwing myself outside of that quince of fish." "Quience?" laughed the boy, "you mean quintal." "Yis, and what's to come of Tim O'Rooney, if he doesn't git some more right spaddily.
Whether to attempt to follow up the signal or to go on to the river and search out Tim O'Rooney and the Newfoundland was a question which was difficult to decide. But his eagerness to find his cousin led him on into the hills, until he had penetrated quite a distance. He then paused and listened for the signal, but none was ever to come to his ears again.
That was the voice of his old friend, Mickey O'Rooney, or else he was more mistaken than he had ever been in his life. But whatever doubts might have lingered with him were removed by the words that immediately followed. "It beats the blazes where that young spalpeen can be kaping himself.
"Arrah now!" exclaimed Tim O'Rooney, "didn't ye saa that he was disgusted wid our paddling and kaaping him back, and has gone out jist that he may enj'y the pleasure of shtretching his arms in the owld-fashioned manner, as Father O'Shaughnessy said when he tipped over his brother?" This may have satisfied the Irishman, but hardly the boys.
Although Fred had contemplated this issue, and had prepared for it, yet he had become so thoroughly imbued with the belief that it was Mickey O'Rooney who was toiling upward that he was almost entirely thrown off his guard. Because of this, the cunning Apache would have secured his foothold and clambered out upon the daring lad, but for one thing.
O'Rooney, who had taken upon himself the task of guiding the mustang, continued him on up the ridge, directly toward the spot where Fred had lain so long watching the action of the Apaches gathered around the opening of the cave. The mustang walked along quite obediently, seeming to feel the load no more than if it was only one half as great.
"And is that man Timothy O'Rooney?" "Timothy O'Rooney, Esquire, from Tipperary, at your sarvice," called out the Irishman from the stern of the canoe, where he was elegantly reclining, and without removing the pipe from his mouth. "Were you on the steamer that was burned off the coast of California?" pursued the interlocutor. "Yes, sir." "Then you are just the party we are looking for."
Mickey O'Rooney, as a matter of course, took the lead and in a twinkling he was among the gnarled and twisted saplings, the interlacing vines, and the rolling stones and rattling gravel. As soon as he had secured a foothold, he reached out his hand to help his young friend. "Never mind me. I can keep along behind you. Go as fast as you can."
This brought the Indian and boy within ten feet of each other, and still the advantage was all upon the side of the latter, who stood in such deep shadow that he was not only invisible, but his presence was unsuspected. The Indian was not gazing in the direction of the lad, but seemed to turn his attention more to the left, toward the spot where Mickey O'Rooney, the Irishman, was stationed.
There is another way of getting into this cavern, and those Apaches have found it out. They've got inside and are hunting for us!" Careful listening convinced Fred that there were two red-skins groping around in the darkness. After making himself certain on that point, he reached his hand over, and, grasping the muscular arm of Mickey O'Rooney, shook his companion quite vigorously.
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