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Updated: May 8, 2025
"Sow-see, sow-see, hun-gay," Mr Gibney saluted the Chinaman in a facetious attempt to talk the latter's language. "Hello, there, John Chinaman. How's your liver? Captain he allee same get tired; he no waitee. Wha's mallah, John. Too long time you no come. You heap lazy all time." Gin Seng smiled his bland, inscrutable Chinese smile. "You ketchum two China boy in box?" he queried.
"Ah done tol' you-all Ah'm right," Dirty Dan heard one of them say. "Ha!" thought Dirty Dan. "A dirrty black naygur! I can tell be the v'ice of him." One of his companions grunted, and another said, in accents which the astute Mr. O'Leary correctly judged to be those of a foreigner of some sort: "All right. W'en he's come out, we jumpa right here. Wha's matter, eh?" "Suits me," the negro replied.
Kent was a big man; that is to say, he was tall, well-muscled and active. But so was Manley. Kent tried the power of persuasion, leaving force as a last, doubtful result. In fifteen minutes or thereabouts he had succeeded in getting Manley outside the door, and there he balked. "Wha's matter wish you?" he complained, pulling back. "C'm on back 'n' have drink. Wha's wanna tell me?" "You wait.
The trader's anger ripped out in a crackle of obscene oaths. They garnished the questions that he snarled. "Wha's the matter with me? Why ain't I good enough for yore half-breed litter?" It was a spark to gunpowder. The oaths, the insult, the whole degrading episode, combined to drive McRae out of the self-restraint he had imposed on himself. He took one step forward.
They tell some strange stories ab-out them and that 'ouse; cruelty to slave', intrigue with slave', duel' ab-out slave'. Maybe tha'z biccause those iron bar' up and down in sidewalk window', old Spanish fashion; maybe biccause in confusion with that Haunted House in Royal Street, they are so allike, those two house'. But they are cock-an'-bull, those tale'. Wha's true they don't tell, biccause they don' know, and tha'z what I'm telling you ad the present.
"It's mair nor ever happened in yon kirk o' yours; an' it's mair nor could happen to the Pope o' Rome, wha's a true freen o' yours, I'm jalousin'," snorted my beadle back triumphantly; for William was uncharitable, and despaired of all ritualists, the iron of covenanting protest running hot within his blood.
"Don't run off with the notion that I'm out after the heart's blood of our young hee-ro. I like him all right far as he goes. I like him a heap better," he owned frankly, "since I glommed him devouring that letter from Miss Gertrude M. Shannon. "Don't you want to ride a ways with me?" His eyes made love while he waited for her to speak. "Don't?" Wha's molla?
Here the poor maniac sung, in a low and wild tone, "My banes are buried in yon kirkyard Sae far ayont the sea, And it is but my blithesome ghaist That's speaking now to thee. "But after a', Jeanie, my woman, naebody kens weel wha's living and wha's dead or wha's gone to Fairyland there's another question. Whiles I think my puir bairn's dead ye ken very weel it's buried but that signifies naething.
Toby blinked a little, and yawned, and looked at the sunshine. "Wha's time?" he gaped. "Oh-o-oo." "Dunno. Oo, bless me!" Sally roused herself. "I mustn't be late." She reached out for Toby's watch, on the table at his side of the bed, and held it up to the light. The time was half-past-seven. She looked at the old watch, a cheap one with a loud tick.
The Hieland lairds are pitting their best foremost. Will ye apply for shares?" "I think I'll tak' twa hundred. Wha's Sir Polloxfen Tremens?" "He'll be yin o' the Ayrshire folk. He used to rin horses at the Paisley races." "D' ye ken ony o' the directors, Jimsy?" "I ken Sawley fine. Ye may depend on 't, it's a gude thing if he's in 't, for he's a howkin' body. "Then it's sure to gae up.
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