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Updated: June 19, 2025
It was Martin Wallen's bar bill for the autumn months at Donnelly's Shades, and the girl flushed with mortification. "This is something with which I have nothing to do," said she. "I would not pay it if I had the money." "I was told to come to you," said the man. "It's your brother's account, and he said you'd promised him the money time and again. If it ain't paid we'll send for the furniture."
And then speedily came the long-threatened outbreak, the demand of the American Railway Union that the public cease to patronize or the railway companies to run, no matter what their contracts, the cars of the Pullman Company. "We've got 'em by the throat at last," screamed Mart Wallen at Donnelly's Shades that night.
He would say or do something to the man opposite him which would goad that individual to fury and then when retaliation was about to come in the shape of a blow, he would yell "Mr. Umpire," and in many instances the player would be ruled off the field. Donnelly's line of conversation in a Yale game, addressed to Billy Rhodes who played opposite him, would be somewhat as follows: "Ah, Mr.
Leaving Bernie on guard, Blake penetrated swiftly to the rooms behind, paying no heed to the crone's protestations. In one corner a slender, dark-eyed boy was cowering, whom he recognized at once as the lad he had seen on the night of Donnelly's death. "You are Gino Cressi," he said, quietly. The boy shook his head. "Oh, yes, you are, and you must come with me, Gino." The little fellow recoiled.
"They are like Mary Donnelly's." "'Her eyes like mountain water Where it's running o'er a rock." "Whose eyes?" asked Vesta. "Not Luella Slocum's? I was just going to tell you about her." "No, not hers. How is she? You must have had a sweet time there." Vesta gave her head a backward shake it was a pretty way she had and laughed. "I am sure I did her good," she said.
O'Neil filled a tumbler to the brim, lifted it high, made two or three hoarse efforts to speak, and then walked away to the window, where he drank in silence. This little incident touched the family more than the announcement of their good fortune. Henry Donnelly's feverish exultation subsided: he sat down with a grave, thoughtful face, while his wife wept quietly beside him.
This new side of Blake's character fascinated him. "If you will tell me the circumstances it will help me piece out my record," said the Chief, so Blake began reluctantly, hesitatingly, giving the facts clearly, but with a constraint that bore witness to his pain in the recital. When he had finished, it was Donnelly's turn to show surprise. "That is remarkable!" he exclaimed.
These four men dined together on the evening of October 15th, at Fabacher's, then attended a theater where they made themselves conspicuous. From there they proceeded to the lower section of the city and were purposely arrested for disturbing the peace about the time of Donnelly's murder, in order to establish incontestable alibis.
Mac had his other anniversaries, be it understood, on all of which occasions he repaired to Donnelly's Shades on a famous thoroughfare two blocks west of the Cranstons' back gate, and entertained all comers with tales of dragoon days that began in the 50's and spread all over the century.
Instead he lit a cigarette, and as he raised the match looked guardedly into a mirror behind Donnelly's chair. "I'm glad you took this table," he began in a low voice. "I always sit where I can get a flash." "A what?" queried the astonished Blake. "Pianissimo with that talk!" cautioned the speaker. "You'll tip him off." "Tip who?" Donnelly breathed. "My man! He's one of the gang.
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