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Updated: June 17, 2025
Margaret O'Rourke, with the baddish cat following closely at her heels, entered the Bilkins mansion, reached her chamber in the attic without being intercepted, and there laid aside her finery. The breakfast was late that morning. As Mrs. O'Rourke set the coffee-urn in front of Mrs. Bilkins and flanked Mr. Bilkins with the broiled mackerel and buttered toast, Mrs. O'Rourke's conscience smote her.
The engagement itself does not concern us, but this item from the list of casualties on the Union side has a direct bearing on our narrative: "Larry O'Rourke, seaman, splinter wound in the leg. Not serious." That splinter flew far. It glanced from Mr. O'Rourke's leg, went plumb through the Bilkins mansion, and knocked over a small marble slab in the Old South Burying Ground.
What Arthur Griffith said about the headpiece over the Freeman leader: a homerule sun rising up in the northwest from the laneway behind the bank of Ireland. He prolonged his pleased smile. Ikey touch that: homerule sun rising up in the north-west. He approached Larry O'Rourke's. From the cellar grating floated up the flabby gush of porter.
O'Rourke's freaks were not always of so innocent a complexion. On one or two occasions, through an excess of animal and other spirits, he took to breaking windows in the town. Among his nocturnal feats he accomplished the demolition of the glass in the door of The Wee Drop. O'Rourke woke up one fine morning and found himself snug and tight in one of the cells in the rear of the Brick Market.
In those days her mother used often to say regretfully that she didn't know when she was well off, like Rody O'Rourke's pigs, quoting a proverb of obscurer antecedents.
"S' right, Bud, dere's a noo captain on d' precinct, an' he's pinched O'Rourke. 'N' say, Bud, d' game's all balled up; d' push is all up in d' air. 'N' say, O'Rourke's crazy an' can't do nothin', so he sent me t' fetch ye. You're d' only one as can fix d' police, so come on right now before d' whole show's busted up."
"That's where I'm different I can!" said Ravenslee, opening and shutting his right hand convulsively. "Yes, I'll hold him till his last kick and after!" "My God!" exclaimed the Spider softly, and, beholding that clutching right hand, he edged away. "Where you goin' t' look fer him?" he enquired after a while. "O'Rourke's!"
They chose to halt at the small, shabby tenement-house by the river, through the doorway of which the bridal pair disappeared with a reeling, eccentric gait; for Mr. O'Rourke's intoxication seemed to have run down his elbow, and communicated itself to Margaret.
O'Rourke's summing up of his case was characteristic: "I 've been kilt in battle, hanged by the court-martial, put into the lock-up for life, and here I am, bedad, not a ha'p'orth the worse for it." None the worse for it, certainly, and none the better. By no stretch of magical fiction can we make an angel of him. He is not at all the material for an apotheosis.
I used t' kind o' hope but pshaw! she's dead ain't she, Bud?" "I guess so!" nodded M'Ginnis, yet deep in thought. "An' buried ain't she, Bud?" "What th' hell!" exclaimed Bud, turning to stare, "what's bitin' ye?" "I'm wonderin' 'why', an' I'm likewise wonderin' 'who', Bud. Maybe I'll find out for sure some day. I'm waitin', Bud, waitin'. Goin' around t' O'Rourke's, are ye?
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