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From Terry O'Ryan, brother of a peer, at Latouche, to Bernard Bapty, son of a millionaire, at Vancouver, there's a string o' them. All pride and self; and as fair a lot they've been as ever entered for the Marriage Cup. Now isn't that so, father?" Finden's brogue did not come from a plebeian origin.
Oh, yes! oh yes! hear ye! hear ye, all manner of men the election is now going to begin forthwith in the big field, and Rory O'Ryan holds the poll for Talbot. Talbot for ever! huzza! Lord J. Talbot, I am glad you are what I always thought you I'm glad you did not write that odious song. I would not lose such a friend for all the songs in the world. Forgive me for my hastiness this morning.
He nearly broke my arm would have done it, if I hadn't gone limp to him; and your cousin Conny Jopp, little Conny Jopp, was as near Kingdom Come as a man wants at his age. I saw an elephant go 'must' once in India, and it was as like O'Ryan as putty is to dough. It isn't all over either, for O'Ryan will forget and forgive, and Jopp won't. He's your cousin, but he's a sulker.
But I've done for ever with white lies. I wish you had never begun with them, Mr. O'Ryan. This may be a good joke to you; but it is none to me or Talbot. So Talbot never wrote a word of the song? Rory. Not a word or syllable, good or bad. Lord J. And I have given my promise to vote against him. He'll lose his election. Rory. Not if you'll give me leave to speak to your friends in your name.
And Constantine Jopp had never lost an opportunity of vexing him, of torturing him, of giving veiled thrusts, which he knew O'Ryan could not resent. It was the constant pin-prick of a mean soul, who had an advantage of which he could never be dispossessed unless the ledger was balanced in some inscrutable way.
"Only dim ones in the halls and two bulbs turned on in the library; it's a big room though, and they hardly made any light at all," explained O'Ryan; he was particular as to details. "I used handcuffs on the prisoner, thinking maybe he'd give me the slip in the dim light, but there was no fight or flight in him." "Did he talk to you on the way to the station house?"
As the night wore on they decided on the punishment to be meted out by La Touche to the man who had not "acted on the square." Gow Johnson saw, too late, that he had roused a spirit as hard to appease as the demon roused in O'Ryan earlier in the evening.
O'Ryan, that great, glowing failure whose name will outlive the fame of the successful in San Francisco, used to play ingenious jokes upon it. O'Ryan was possibly the only man of any time who could draw the sting of a practical joke. They dwelt, twin-regnant over this world of theirs, in sisterly harmony.
Suddenly the voice of Gow Johnson was heard: "Don't kill him let go, boy!" The voice rang out with sharp anxiety, and pierced the fog of passion and rage in which O'Ryan was moving. He realized what he was doing, the real sense of it came upon him.
There was an outdoor scene in the play produced by the impetuous amateurs, and dialogue had been interpolated by three "imps of fame" at the suggestion of Constantine Jopp, one of the three, who bore malice towards O'Ryan, though this his colleagues did not know distinctly.
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