United States or Iceland ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
"I'm not a-going to eat you, Eglantine; you're a bigger man than me: if you were just to fall on me, you'd smother me! Just sit still on the sofa and listen to reason." "Well, sir, pro-ceed," said the barber with a gasp. "Now, listen! What's the darling wish of your heart? I know it, sir! you've told it to Mr. Tressle, sir, and other gents at the club.
'Cap, ye're guilty, an' ye know it, he says. 'Th' decision iv th' coort is that ye be put in a cage, an' sint to th' Divvle's own island f'r th' r-rest iv ye'er life, he says. 'Let us pro-ceed to hearin' th' tistimony, he says. 'Call all th' witnesses at wanst, he says, 'an' lave thim have it out on th' flure, he says.
"'Did ye see th' pris'ner afther his arrest? 'I did. 'Where? 'In th' pa-apers. 'What was he doin'? 'His back was tur-rned. 'What did that indicate to ye? 'That he had been sufferin' fr'm a variety iv tomaine excelsis 'Greek wurruds, says th' coort. 'Latin an' Greek, says th' expert. 'Pro-ceed, says th' coort.
The red-faced one acknowledged it by a barely perceptible flip of a fat paw, then put a little extra stiffening into his spinal column and growled, in a voice that seemed to come booming up from the region of his diaphragm, "Pro-ceed." MacRae proceeded. But he didn't get very far.
'I've r-rich relatives in Philadelphia, he says. 'But, says Mack, ''tis a shame to think iv ye'er noble sarvices bein' wasted, he says, 'whin ye'er counthry calls, he says. 'I appint ye, he says, 'surgeon-gin'ral, he says. 'Pro-ceed, he says, 'to Cubia, an' stamp out th' dhread ravages, he says, 'iv r-ringbone an' stagger, he says. "That's how Dock got th'job.
'Let us pro-ceed, says th' impartial an' fair-minded judge, 'to th' thrile iv th' haynious monsther Cap Dhry-fuss, he says. Up jumps Zola, an' says he in Frinch: 'Jackuse, he says, which is a hell of a mane thing to say to anny man. An' they thrun him out. 'Judge, says th' attorney f'r th' difinse, 'an' gintlemen iv th' jury, he says. 'Ye're a liar, says th' judge.
No more did I, he says. 'Onless, he says, 'they shoot pitchforks, he says, 'they'll niver hur-rt ye, he says. 'Ye'll be onvincible, he says. 'Ye'll pro-ceed into th' harbor, he says, 'behind th' sturdy armor iv projuce, he says. 'Let ye'er watchword be "Stay on th' far-rm," an' go on to victhry, he says. 'Gin'ral, says Cap Brice, 'how can I thank ye f'r th' honor? he says.
Then there's a big bust-up and a row that gets into the papers, and a lot of chaps are expelled, you know." "Always the wrong un's; don't forget that. Have a cup of cocoa, Padre?" said McTurk with the kettle. "No, thanks; I'm smoking. Always the wrong 'uns? Pro-ceed, my Stalky." "And then" Stalky warmed to the work "everybody says, 'Who'd ha' thought it? Shockin' boys!
Word Of The Day