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"When the spectators are address'd, Then is the time for Slug to rest From his high lot he can't be hurl'd, To feel toward the wicked world; So he will sit with closed eyes Until the congregation rise; And when the labor we commence, He moves with such a stupid sense It often makes spectators stare To see so dead a creature there."
Enoch, clinging perilously to the breaking rock, half faint with hunger, his fingers numb with the cold, laughed again, to himself, and said aloud: ". . . . . . . . . . . . . And yet Dauntless the slug horn to my lips I set And blew, Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came." "Christ could forgive the unforgivable, but the Colorado in the Canyon is like the voice of God, inevitable, inexorable."
"My lawsuit," he said in his Southern accent and rolling his r's, "is a very simple thing; they want my manufactory. I've employed here in Paris a dolt of a lawyer, to whom I give twenty francs every time he opens an eye, and he is always asleep. He's a slug, who drives in his coach, while I go afoot and he splashes me. I see now I ought to have had a carriage!
We wrestled and thrashed off the ledge, and when we landed in the gravel I was on top. "Slug him, Ken!" yelled Dick, wildly. "Oh, that's fine! Give it to him! Punch him! Get his wind!" Either it was a mortal dread of Greaser's knife or some kind of a new-born fury that lent me such strength. He screeched, he snapped like a wolf, he clawed me, he struck me, but he could not shake me off.
"This stupid soul in all his drift Is still behind the proper gift With other souls he don't unite, Nor is he zealous to do right. Among Believers he's a drug, And ev'ry elder hates a Slug.
Finding that the boat and provisions had been taken and seeing smoke in the bight, he surmised what had happened and came paddling across to the tent. He had received a tempting offer to help load a ship and had just completed his contract. As a result of this work, he was able to exhibit a slug of California gold and other money that looked precious indeed in our eyes.
Some of the men were actually crying from fright, seeming to be completely demoralized. I noticed how one of our men in loading his musket rammed home a slug of lead, forgetting his charge of powder entirely. The sight of this disgusted me so that I became furious, and in the measure that my anger rose my fear subsided and vanished.
You may say that it is my egotism; but, at a moment like this, what is the use of shamming of polite pretense? Feeling for you as I do, do you feel absolutely nothing for me?" "Feel!" cry I, driven out of all moderation by disgust and exasperation. "Would you like to know how I feel? I feel as if a slug had crawled over me!" His face contracts, his eyes darken with a raging pain.
The slug, when dried, is an ugly looking, dirty brown-coloured substance, very hard and rigid until softened by water and a very lengthened process of cookery, after which it becomes soft and mucilaginous.
The cushion turned in midair into a puff of bright white fire. Gefty aimed his gun high at the far passage wall just beyond the entrance and pulled the trigger. It was a projectile gun. He heard the slug screech off the slick plastic bulkhead and go slamming down the passage. Somebody out there made a startled, incoherent noise. But not the kind of a noise a man makes when he's just been hit.
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