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Updated: June 7, 2025
"By the Lord Harry," said Captain Scraggs, "but you've got an imagination, Gib. I'll swear to that. Gib, I take off my hat to you. You're all tight and shipshape and no loose ends bobbin' around you. Don't tell me th' scheme's got t' fall through, Gib. Great snakes, don't tell me that. Ain't there some way o' gettin' around it? There must be.
Says I to Allen, sir, 'Th' poor man's dead, 'tis sure he's dead. An' Allen he opened th' tent; for I had no heart to do it, sir, and there th' poor man was, wrapped all up in th' blankets as if sleepin', sir. But he were dead, sir, dead; and he were dead for a long time.
Th' dhrink thot done it. Twas a new kind av cocktail. Ye see, I'd jist got back from Melbourne, an' I was takin' in th' lights that noight, aisy like, whin I come t' Toddy's place. I orders a dhrink av whuskey. "'Whist, Pat, says he, 'ye don't want whuskey; 'twill make ye dhrunk. Why don't ye take somethin' green, like th' Irish? "'Green," says I. ''Tis a foine colour.
I mind th' time well whin an Orangey 'd as lave go through hell in a celluloid suit as march in this here town on the twelfth iv July. I raymimber wanst they was a man be th' name iv Morgan Dempsey, a first cousin iv thim Dempseys that lives in Cologne Sthreet, an' he was a Roscommon man, too, an' wan iv th' cutest divvles that iver breathed th' breath iv life.
Av ye wur dying fer a foight, ye'd challenge him. Ye're th' biggest coward on th' face av th' earth. Ye give me distriss!" "Vos dot so!" retorted Hans. "Don'd you pelieve me! Vos id my blace to fight mit a blebe?" "Of course it is yer place, ye ignoramus." "Vell, I didn't know dot. Maype I fight him some dime pime-py right avay soon alretty yet." "Oh, no ye won't." "Von't I?"
"Wa'al, th' man on th' seat pulled up when he see me," spoke the farmer with exasperating slowness, "an' asked me how far it was t' th' Waterville station, an' I told him." "Why didn't you say so at first?" asked Tom quickly. "Why didn't you tell us they were heading for the railroad?" "You didn't ask me," replied the farmer. "What difference does it make."
It was the universal sentiment among the officers of the th as they scattered to their homes that Buxton had "wound himself up this time, anyhow;" and no one had any sympathy for him, not one. The very best light in which he could tell the story only showed the affair as a flagrant and inexcusable outrage. Captain Rayner, too, was in fearful plight.
"'That Jim Whitney's a divvle, he confided to me once. 'Wan of these days I'll hit him over th' head with a pick and be hung for murther. Now, what in hell d'ye suppose a nice girl like that sticks by him for? If it weren't for her I'd 'a' reported him long ago. The scut! And I remember that he spat gloomily. "But I got to know the answer to that question sooner than I had expected.
"Ye damn dirty spalpeen, lie there f'r a time, will ye? I'll break ivery bone in ye'er body if ye even make a move ter git up. Do ye think I've spint me life f'r nothin' better than ter rear up a blackmailer an' th' like iv ye?
"I have one son," said she; "he's a sailmaker. He's th' best off of any of 'em. But, Lord bless yo; he's not able to help us. He gets very little, and he has to pay a woman to nurse his sick wife. . . . This lad that's here, he's a little grandson o' mine; he's one of my dowter's childer. He brings his meight with him every day, an' sleeps with us. They han bod one bed, yo see.
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