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Updated: June 2, 2025
Hardy admonished the joker lethargically, but with a certain degree of malevolence in his weary tones. "Aw, chack it, Mac!" he drawled. "W'y carn't yer let th' bleedin' bird alone? Yer know 'e don't like that bein' done t'im. Jes' 'awk t'im tellin' yer as much!"
"Reel reg'mental?" echoed Hardy mincingly, "aowe gorblimey! 'awk t'im? well, wot abaht it? I've done my bit, too! in Injia. See 'ere; look!" He pulled up the loose duck-pant of his right leg. On the outside of the hairy, spare but muscular limb, an ugly old dirty-white scar zigzagged from knee to ankle. "Paythan knife," he informed them briefly, "but I did th' blowke in wot give it me."
McSporran!" he hissed in a loud eager whisper, "Jes' 'awk t' im? . . . gort th' real reg'mental tatch 'as old Kissiwasti! ain't he?" his face shone with simple pride "d' yer 'ken' that? sh-sh! listen now! . . . Yer shud 'ear 'im s'y 'Oot, mon! . . . 'Awk t'im up an' tellin'yer w'y th' Jocks wear th' kilts." Awhile McSporran listened, but with singular lack of enthusiasm.
Sims made Dicky sick," said Emmeline, "he said the wonder t'im was how Dicky held it all." "Come on," said Mr Button, "an' don't be talkin', or it's the Cluricaunes will be after us." "What's cluricaunes?" demanded Dick. "Little men no bigger than your thumb that make the brogues for the Good People." "Who's they?"
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