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Updated: June 8, 2025
We camped about 1.30 near five small houses in a row, with the novel accessory of some big trees probably a town in large letters on the map. It appears the convoy has halted some way back for the four midday hours dear to the oxen. The rest of the column came in at dusk. A warm night. Every night in camp you may hear deep-throated choruses swelling up from the prisoners' laager.
The men were singing "Auld Lang Syne" to the accompaniment of a concertina and a mouth-organ. They were taking parts, and the old tune so strange to hear out in a village of France, in the war zone sounded very well, with deep-throated harmonies. Presently the concertina changed its tune, and the men of the New Army sang "God Save the King."
The scattered lights of Southall were winking out behind them before Brentwick chose to give the word to the mechanician. Quietly the latter threw in the clutch for the third speed and the fourth. The car leaped forward like a startled race-horse. The motor lilted merrily into its deep-throated song of the open road, its contented, silken humming passing into a sonorous and sustained purr.
"Yes," smiled the giant into his beard, his deep-throated bull's voice rumbling through their tiny room. "But it is in my mind that there are stranger days ahead of us, Brian Buidh. A witch-woman once told me that I would meet my death from water and fire together, brother, in a cause not mine own." "You are not bound to my service," replied Brian.
The men had fled toward the closed door, and, on the ground, against the far wall, he had a glimpse of five bodies lying crumpled up where his guns had laid them. Suddenly a great shout reached him from without. "Ho, Jeff! Ho, boy!" It was a deep-throated roar which drowned the hiss and crackle of the blazing straw. Jeff's answer rang through the burning structure with all the power of his lungs.
Leith thrust his head over the edge of the hole while Soma held the torch, and, with a coarse laugh, the ruffian inquired if his victims had changed their minds. "No, we have not," replied the Professor, his thin, quavering voice sounding strangely weak after the deep-throated bellow of the bully on top. "Well, you'll change it soon," cried Leith.
They came, the De Gamelyns of all generations from Crécy to Waterloo: they fought by his side, and the machine gun bullets, which fell upon the dusty earth like tropical rain, hurt them not. Again and again the Bowman's mace smashed and lashed out before him, and Tim thrust, and thrust yet again with his sword. He heard the deep-throated roar of the bowman's singing "The Song of the Bow."
Manny! George for England!" rose the deep-throated bay, and ever the gallant counter-cry: "A Chargny! A Chargny! Saint Denis for France!" thundered amid the clash and thudding of the battle. Such was the vague whirling memory still lingering in Nigel's mind when at last the mists cleared away from it and he found himself weak but clear on the low couch in the corner turret.
Like the beating of a mighty heart heard through the rushing clamor of the pulses, a single deep-throated bell boomed solemnly six heavy, rumbling strokes. Six o'clock! Kirkwood roused out of his dour brooding. The Amsterdam express would leave at 6:32, and he knew not from what station. Striding swiftly across the promenade, he entered a small tobacco shop and made inquiry of the proprietress.
Rube passed out of the room, gurgling a deep-throated chuckle, while his wife went steadily on with the all-important matter in hand. It was a dazzling morning nearly five weeks after the dispatching of Ma Sampson's letter to Rosebud.
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