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Updated: May 10, 2025
"Trinkgeldt!" he cried. O'Toole swore loudly, and getting level beat him with his whip. Wogan's head popped out of the window. "Silence!" said he in a rage. "Mademoiselle is asleep;" and then seeing O'Toole's white and disordered face he asked, "What is it?" No one in the coach had had a suspicion of their danger.
Temporarily, at least, I might undertake the duties of the furnace man and handy-man about the house. He is leaving to-morrow, I hear. If you will be so good as to tell Murray that I am to take O'Toole's place,—temporarily, of course,—I shall be very grateful. It will give me time to collect my thoughts, ma'am." "It will not be necessary, Wade, for you to take on O'Toole's work.
Coming into O'Toole's in the quiet hours between eight and twelve he sat eating his evening meal and talking in a half bantering humorous vein to the young lawyer. In his eyes lurked a kind of hard cruelty tempered by indolence. It was he who gave McGregor the name that still clings to him in that strange savage land "Judge Mac, the Big 'un."
"O'Toole!" he gasped. The Irishman was breathing faintly, and instantly Frank did what he could to restore him. In a few moments the poor fellow moaned a bit. Striking another match, Merry found O'Toole's eyes were wide open, but he was bleeding from the mouth and presented a ghastly appearance. He was conscious, however. "O'Toole, where are you hurt?" asked Merry.
They saw in him something to be tamed and conquered and they gathered in groups to engage him in talk and return the inquiring stare in his eyes. They thought that with such an unconquered soul about, life might take on new fervour and interest. Like the women who sat playing with toothpicks in O'Toole's restaurant, more than one of the women at Mrs.
Of these a man would be a brute who spoke roughly. Indeed, after Miss O'Toole's conduct to the writer, he would be the last to condemn. But never mind, these are personal matters. In that noble romance called 'Ten Thousand a Year, I remember a profoundly pathetic description of the Christian manner in which the hero, Mr. Aubrey, bore his misfortunes.
Porrfeeus dil Noort wur th' firrust man Oi ivver saw that made me fale as if bullets wouldn't kill him an' kape him dead. Wur he to roize before me this minute nivver a bit surphrised would Oi be." Although Merry jollied the Irishman, it was no easy matter to relieve O'Toole's nervousness.
"It's trying, you know, when you hear exclamations like this: 'The saints presarve us! if he hasn't nearly poked his elbow into Mrs. Fitzgerald's eye! or, 'See now, if he isn't standing on Miss Macrae's train! One day I let a cup of coffee fall on to old Mrs. O'Toole's new crimson silk dress.
"Will you be pleased to remember when next I have an idea that I was right?" "But not for ourselves," added Wogan. O'Toole's face fell. "Oh, we are to hand it on to a third party," said he. "Yes." "Well, after all, that's quite of a piece with our luck." "Who is the third party?" asked Misset. "The King." Misset started up from his chair and leaned forward, his hands upon the arms.
He had spoken under a sudden inspiration; the Cardinal's words had shown him a way which with careful treading might lead to his desired result. He went first to his lodging, and ordered his servant Marnier to saddle his black horse. Then he hurried again to O'Toole's lodging, and found his friend back from the bookseller's indeed, but breathing very hard of a book which he slid behind his back.
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