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And you ask me to drink the health of the politician who sits at home and sends his fellowmen to die to fix his rotten jobs for him?" Crailey had persuaded himself into such earnestness, that the depth of his own feeling almost choked him, but he finished roundly in his beautiful, strong voice: "I'll drink for the good punch's sake but that health?
The taunt was more than Tim could bear. He knew that Moses would come triumphantly out of the ordeal, and besides, he would really like to go and see the clever Punch's dog in the next street; Joshua was safe for another half-hour, and the place looked so quiet and deserted. It must be safe. He would go.
Meanwhile the murderer, impatient to receive his doom, was audibly calling to him 'CO-O-OME here! while the victim, struggling with his bonds, assailed him with the most injurious expressions. In a shy street, behind Long-acre, two honest dogs live, who perform in Punch's shows.
They started again, yielding a little to the stream, and wading diagonally for the bank on Punch's left, but making very slow progress, for Pen noted that the water, which was rough and shallow where they were, seemed to flow calmly and swiftly onward a short distance away, and was evidently deep. "Steady! Steady!" cried Pen, hanging away a little towards the bank from which they had started.
"I feel," he whispered to Mrs. Campion, "like poor Lord Pomfret, who, charmed with Punch's lively conversation, bought him, and was greatly surprised that, when he had once brought him home, Punch would not talk." "But your Punch listens," said Mrs. Campion, "and he observes." George Belvoir, on the other hand, was universally declared to be very agreeable.
Punch's eye was now glued to the hole. He felt that if anybody looked up he would be sure to see it glittering in the lamplight; but the fascination to learn what was to be their fate was too strong to be resisted.
Then, marching out again, he gave a short command, and, from where Punch's eye was still glued to the opening, he saw the soldiers turn rightabout face, disappear through the open doorway, and then, beat, beat, beat, the sound of marching began again, this time to die slowly away, and he looked and listened till the pressure of Pen's hand upon his arm grew almost painful.
They assisted at each other's toilets, washed each other's faces, and once, when Mary Cook was asked what was the matter with Punch's eye, she said: "I think, Sur, that the cat must have put her finger in it, when she combed his bang!" Punch loved everybody. He seldom barked, he never bit. He cared nothing for clothes, or style, or social position.
In due time followed his "Punch's Letters to his Son," and "Complete Letter-Writer," with the "Story of a Feather", mentioned above. A basis of philosophical observation, tinged with tenderness, and a dry, ironical humor, all, like the Scottish lion in heraldry, "within a double tressure-fleury and counter-fleury" of wit and fancy, such is a Jerroldian paper of the best class in "Punch."
Just hand it off that peg." Pen reached the bugle from where it hung by its green cord, and the lines in Punch's young forehead began to fade as he gave the instrument a touch with his sleeve, and then placed the mouthpiece to his lips, filled out his sadly pale, hollow cheeks, and looked as if he were going to blow with all his might, when he was checked by Pen clapping his hand over the glistening copper bell.
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