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Updated: June 16, 2025
There's ayther a bit of a jauntin' car wid a skewbald pony for drivin', or we can borry the loan of Dinnis Rooney's blind ass wid the plain cart, or we can just take a fut in a hand and leg it over the bog. Sure it's no great thing to go do, but only a taste of divarsion like, though it's three good Irish miles an' powerful hot weather, with niver a dhrop of wet these manny days.
And my name ain't Maudy, if you please; it's Ruby Delamere." "That's a swell handle," said Cork approvingly. "Mine's McManus Cor er Eddie McManus." "Oh, you can't help that," laughed Ruby. "Don't apologize." Cork looked seriously at the big clock on Rooney's wall. The girl's ubiquitous eyes took in the movement.
"Ah, well, Mackay," said he, on Tim Rooney's return presently with a pannikin of pea-soup and a large iron spoon, with which he proceeded to ladle some into the starving creature's mouth, which was ravenously opened, as were his eyes, too, distended with eager famine craving as he smelt the food "you see to bringing the beggar round as well as you can, and I'll talk to him bye and bye."
One or two of the fiercest, indeed, struggled at first, but without avail for the intended victim of each robber was handy and ready to lend assistance at the capture, as if in righteous retribution. It was of course a startling incident to those who were not in the secret. Every man sprang up and drew his knife, not knowing where a foe might appear, but Rooney's strong voice quieted them.
On the contrary, he was brightly intelligent, and, being somewhat humorous in addition, he seized Rooney's hand instantly after, and repeated the operation, with a broad smile on his beaming face. Then, turning suddenly to Tumbler, he grasped and shook that naked infant's hand, as it sat on the floor in a pool of oil from a lamp which it had overturned.
The sham gaiety, the hectic glow of counterfeit hospitality, the self-conscious, joyless laughter, the wine-born warmth, the loud music retrieving the hour from frequent whiles of awful and corroding silence, the presence of well-clothed and frank-eyed beneficiaries of Rooney's removal of the restrictions laid upon the weed, the familiar blended odors of soaked lemon peel, flat beer, and peau d'Espagne all these were manna to Cork McManus, hungry for his week in the desert of the Capulet's high rear room.
But she might be brought to rason, father; and if she should be brought to give up that claim to the bit o' bog of yours, and when all differs betwix' the families be made up, then you would consent. Old McB. When Catty Rooney's brought to rason! Oh! go shoe the goslings, dear, ay, you'll get my consint then. There's my hand: I promise you, I'll never be called on to perform that, Honor, jewel.
Rooney's eyes as she reeled backward on the floor. "Take that, you owld faggot!" cried Matty, as she shook Mrs. Rooney's tributary claret from the knuckles which had so scientifically tapped it, and wiped her hand in her apron. The old woman roared "millia' murthur" on the floor, and snuffled out a deprecatory question "if that was the proper way to be received in her son's house."
But Corrigan would be home the next day, so he felt sure there would be small danger in a little excursion that night among the crass pleasures that represented life to him. At half-past twelve McManus stood in a darkish cross-town street looking up at the name "Rooney's," picked out by incandescent lights against a signboard over a second-story window.
I recollect well Tim's whispering softly as I let go my hold of the port sill, "Sure, now, take care av y'rsilf, Misther Gray-ham, sorr, an' don't forgit what the skipper's tould you about your coorse whin ye gits outsoide the rafe; ye're to steer nor'-nor'-west, wid a little more west in it, an' kape a good look-out for the blissid gunboat an' an' God bliss ye me bhoy, an' that's Tim Rooney's dyin' wish if ye niver say him ag'in!"
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