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Updated: May 28, 2025
When he appeared finally, there was a good deal of swearing in the air. Daggs reached out and jerked the boy into the center of the group, his light eyes agleam under scowling brows. "See here, you little runt," he hissed, "don't think because the Cap'n's savin' you to kill later, that you're the bloomin' mate of this ship! Come here to the capstan, now!"
"A'll no take m' fist t' y' as A wud t' a Man! A'll treat y' as A wud a dirty broth of a brat of a boy with the flat o' my hand an' sole leather; y' scum, y' runt, y' hoggish swinish whiskey soak o' bacon an' fat!
"Maybe you'll remark," I says, "who they happen to be." "Shan and Sadler of Saleratus," he says. "I believe you're a liar," I says, surprised at the name. "Which there's a little tallow-faced runt in perspective," he says, climbing down the stays, "that I can lick," he says, being misled by my size. And when that was over, I started for Saleratus. It was a town to the south, down near the coast.
For three quarters of an hour, perhaps longer, Johnny dismissed the thousand-dollar-a-week job from his mind and waited with rising indignation for Bland. What had become of the darned little runt? Here it was nine o'clock, and no sign of him. The lobby was beginning to wear an atmosphere of sedate bustling to and fro.
Next morning, having pretty much slept himself sober, Hart's nephew went cavorting around Palomitas that little runt did like he was about ten foot tall! He had the whole thing over, in the course of the day, a dozen times or more; and as he kept on telling it now he was sober enough to add things on it got to be about the biggest fight with road-agents that ever was.
The taller of the two seemed to be doing most of the talking. In the positions they had assumed it would have been rather difficult to be sure of which was the taller, but Robert Morey was a good four inches taller than Richard Arcot. Arcot had to suffer under the stigma of "runt" with Morey around he was only six feet tall.
Mike Shane, the third of the trio of Irish laborers in Neale's corps, was a little runt of a sandy-haired wizened man, and he spoke up: "Begorra, he's wan of thim Texas Jacks. He'd loike to kill yez, Pat Casey, an' if he ever throwed thot cannon at yez, why, runnin' 'd be slow to phwat yez 'd do." "I niver run in me loife," declared Casey, doggedly. Neale went his way.
He was a pompous little man to whom the inelegant applied the term of runt. He never could have passed the army examination, for he had no instep. He walked like a duck, flat-footed, minus the waddle. He was pop-eyed, and the fumes of strong drink had loosened the tear-ducts so that his eyes swam in a perennial mist of tears. His wife still called him William, but down town he was Bill.
And his Size was against him. He lacked Bellows. He was an inconspicuous little Runt. When he stood up to Plead, he came a trifle higher than the Chair. Of the 90 pounds he carried, about 45 were Gray Matter. He had Mental Merchandise to burn but no way of delivering it. When there was a Rally or some other Gabfest on the Bills, the Committee never asked him to make an Address.
"It is Procyon One the Runt himself Hi, Babe!" the new voice roared, then quieted to normal volume. "I read you eight and one. Survivors?" "Five. Second Officer Jones, our wives, and Dr. Andrew Adams, a Fellow of the College of Advanced Study. He's solely responsible for our being here, so " "Skip that for now. In a lifecraft? No, after this long, it must be the ship. Not navigable, of course?"
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