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"Hilloa, Bios!" shouted Twing, grasping him by the hand. "Why, bless me, Twing, I'm glad to see you!" answered Blossom, throwing his arms around the diminutive major. "But where on earth is your pewter?" for during the embrace he had been groping all over Twing's body for the flask. "Here, Cudjo! That flask, boy!" "Faith, Twing, I'm near choked; we've been fighting all day a devil of a fight!
Martin's terror, as the stranger passed out, Twing, instead of following him as she expected, said "Good-night," and gloomily re-entered the schoolroom. Here he paused a moment, and then throwing himself on one of the benches, dropped his head upon a desk with his face buried in his hands like a very schoolboy. What passed through Mrs. Martin's mind I know not.
Saying this, he stepped forward on the cliff and looked over; and then he examined the tree, and then the piece of lazo, and then the tree again, and then he commenced dropping pebbles down, as if he was determined to measure every object, and fix it in his memory with a proper distinctness. Twing and the others had now dismounted.
Suddenly the slight sharp twing was repeated. It seemed to come from outside her flesh. She shivered a little, thinking it might be a centipede. When she reached for her shoulder her hand came in contact with a slender stick that had been thrust through a crack between the boards. Jim was trying to rouse her.
"Try it again!" cried one. "That fellow has lost a champagne supper," said Twing. "More likely he has had it, or his aim would be more steady," suggested an officer. "Oysters, too only think of it!" said Clayley. "Howld your tongue, Clayley, or by my sowl I'll charge down upon the town!"
"Only just say what you want me to do," continued Twing, apparently ignoring the trustees; "pick out the style of job; give me a hint or two how to work it, or what you'd think would be the proper gag to fetch 'em, and I'm there, ma'am. It may be new at first, but I'll get at the business of it quick enough." Mrs.
Arthur MacArthur, the genial and accomplished editor of the Troy Budget, and that witty soul, Rev. Cornelius L. Twing, Rector of Calvary Church, Brooklyn, N.Y., who had come here for the purpose of attending the Annual Conclave of the Grand Commandery of the State of New York.
Had this volume been a farce, which, unless every one's life and opinions are to be looked upon as a farce as well as mine, I see no reason to suppose the last chapter, Sir, had finished the first act of it, and then this chapter must have set off thus. Ptr...r...r...ing twing twang prut trut 'tis a cursed bad fiddle.
"And you think that just because you found Tom had something in his hat, and exposed him?" said Mrs. Martin scornfully. "Tom HADN'T anything in his hat," said Twing, wiping his mouth slowly. "Nothing?" repeated Mrs. Martin. "No." "But I SAW you take the things out." "That was only a TRICK! He had nothing except what I had up my sleeve, and forced on him.
It saves time, and you got the wine clear of " "My respects, gentlemen! Captain Haller Mr Clayley." "Thank you, Major Twing. To you, sir." "Ha! the stools at last! Only one! Come, gentlemen, squeeze yourselves up this way. Here, Clayley, old boy; here's a cartridge-box. Adge! up-end that box. So give us your fist, old fellow; how are you? Sit down, Captain; sit down. Cigars, there!"
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