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Updated: August 15, 2024
"Yorkey!" an' "Reddy!" that worthy was mumbling tu himself over and over again, "Yorkey!" an' "Reddy!" "'Tis so they name each other now! Blarney me sowl! 'Tis come about! Fifty-fifty, tu from th' mugs av thim. Peace, perfect peace, in th' fam'ly at last! Eyah! I wud have given me month's pay-cheque for a ring-side seat." He sighed deeply. They reached the fatal spot.
"Now!" said he, some minutes later, as he backed up the team and made all fast to the double-trees. "Yu', Reddy, an' Lanky, guide th' rope over th' log. Yu', Yorkey, get th' feel av ut, an' give me th' wurrd. I du not want to break ut." Yorke leant over the edge of the bank, loosely feeling the rope. "All right!" he announced.
Joyce has all my measurements, and they got me three dresses and a hat and a lot of shirt-waists and gloves and fixings, all so beautiful and stylish and New Yorkey, and the fine big trunk to put them in. There was even a new brush and comb and mirror, for she remembered how ratty looking my old things were.
"Eyah!" grumbled Slavin, "seems I cannot hilp bein' cuk an' shtandin' orderly-man around here. I thried out Yorkey. . . . Wan day on'y tho' 'tis th' divil's own cuk he is. 'Sarjint! sez he, 'I'm no bowatchee' which in Injia he tells me means same as cuk. An' he tould th' trute at that."
"Yorkey!" he mumbled huskily, "old man! . . . Yor " He choked a bit, and was silent. Waveringly, a skinned-knuckled, but sinewy, shapely hand crept out and gently ruffled Redmond's curly auburn hair. Vaguely he heard a voice speaking to him. Could that tired, kind, whimsical voice belong to Yorke?
Says he beats up his squaw an' starts in to scalp th' dogs an' chickens." "Shtop ut!" bawled Slavin, "d'ju hear, Yorkey? . . . shtoolin' th' nitchie on tu commit a felony an' th' like, thataways!" He sniffed disgustedly. "Skutiawpwè an' squaws! . . . blarney me sowl! but ye've a quare idea av a josh. 'Tis a credit y'are tu th' Ould Counthry, an' no error. I do not wondher ye left ut."
He spoke hotly, eagerly, with boyish fervour, his soul in his eyes. Yorke remained silent, with averted eyes. That imploring, wistful, bruised young countenance was almost more than he could stand. George, dropping on one knee beside him put a tremulous hand on the senior constable's shoulder. "What's wrong, Yorkey?" he queried. He shook the bowed shoulder gently.
"Arrah, thin! shut up, Yorkey!" hissed the sergeant in a warning aside, "they'll hear yez. Here they come." Presently the five were grouped together. Inspector Kilbride's stern features were set in a thoughtful, lowering scowl. Mr. Gully's tanned, leathery countenance looked curiously mottled. "Sergeant!" The inspector clicked off his words sharply. "This is a bad case.
"'Crown' him!" gasped Yorke, still grimly hanging onto his man, "'Crown' the good and hard!" Redmond sprang forward, grasping a small, shot-loaded police "billy," but Slavin interposed a huge arm. "Nay!" he said sharply, and with curious eagerness, "Du not 'chrown' um bhoy! lave um tu me!" And he grasped one of the big, struggling man's wrists firmly in a vise-like grip. "Leggo, Yorkey!"
"Better for you if you took the cure, too!" George flung at him grinning rudely. He neck-reined Fox sharply and dodged a playful punch from his comrade. "Yorkey, old cock, I'm goin' to break you from 'hard stuff' to beer if I have to pitch into you every day." "You're an insultin', bullyin' young beggar," remarked Yorke ruefully.
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