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Updated: May 26, 2025
"C'est moi, mon maitre," cried a well-known voice, and presently in walked Antonio Buchini, dressed in the same style as when I first introduced him to the reader, namely, in a handsome but rather faded French surtout, vest and pantaloons, with a diminutive hat in one hand, and holding in the other a long and slender cane.
She scurried around, and after picking up the coat and vest, opera cloak and other things, threw them over her arm without any idea of order. "Be careful!" angrily shouted the irate broker, who was watching her. "You're not taking the wash off the line." "Yassuh!" The negress literally flew out of the room. Laura put down her newspaper.
"Then the bailiff will sit yonder within a year, for he is but a starved Irish peer." "He lives to-day as though he would be rich tomorrow. He bids for fame and fortune, Davy." "'Tis as though a shirtless man should wear a broadcloth coat over a cotton vest." "The world sees only the broadcloth coat. For the rest " "For the rest, Faith?" "They see the man's face, and " His eyes were embarrassed.
It was obvious that he was of two minds whether to speak or not. "Why not tell him?" suggested Kansas. "What's the odds?" At this Jake took a piece of paper from his vest pocket and handed it to Racey. "I found this lying on the floor of my office when I come back after attending to Bull," was his explanation. There were words printed on the slip of paper.
He made furious resistance, slew some and wounded others, until one of his assailants threw his vest over him and seized him, upon which he stabbed himself to the heart and expired. Religion may have had some share in prompting this act of violence; perhaps revenge for the ruin brought upon his native country.
Grayson at the table, notebook in hand, looking about him in a loftily curious way. He was a small, slightly built youth, sallow of complexion and insignificant of feature, with pale hair brushed up into an exaggerated pompadour, and a neat little moustache. In contrast to Dr. Grayson's heroic proportions he looked like a Vest Pocket Edition alongside of an Unabridged.
The man was lean, tall, sunburned, and the tout ensemble of his attire his flapping, soiled vest, his turned-up, dingy-blue overalls, his torn neck-handkerchief, and, above all, the two-weeks' growth upon his spare face gave him an unbelievable air of untidiness. He cast one slow, measuring glance at the young fellow who Mr.
Cold, crisp, carefully accentuated, his words fell like lead upon the ears of all present, whose sympathies were enlisted for the desolate woman; and as he stood, tall, graceful, with one hand thrust within his vest, the other resting easily on the back of the bench near him, his clear cut face so suggestive of metallic medallions, gave no more hint of the smouldering flame at his heart than the glittering ice crown of Eiriksjokull betrays the fierce lava tides beating beneath its frozen crust.
Up sprang Abner's daughter with a cry, her arms were around his neck, her head was pillowed on his bosom, his vest was wet with her tears; she sobbed forth, "My father! my father!" forgetting for the moment everything else in the delight of having found the lost one at last, and of being locked in the embrace of a parent.
But if you want someone to trail around the deck with, I'm ready. Only I ain't apt to be very cheerful, not for a while yet." Say, that dope of Vee's about gettin' the feel of the boat was a good hunch. Once you get it in your legs the soggy feelin' under your vest begins to let up. Also your head clears.
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