Then he dashed
forward to face the victim of his righteous wrath.
"Ye dom Swade, ye!" He shook a dirty fist beneath the other's nose.
"Shmell o' that! It's now Oi know ye 're a thafe, a low-down haythen
thafe. What are ye sittin' thar for, grinnin' at yer betthers?"
"Two tollar saxty cint."
The startled Irishman stared at him with mouth wide open.
"An' begorry, did ye hear that, seenorita? For the love of Hivin, it's
only a poll-parrot sittin' there ferninst us, barrin' the appetite of
him. Saints aloive! but Oi 'd love to paste the crature av it was n't
a mortal sin to bate a dumb baste. An' he 's a Lutheran! God be
marciful an' keep me from iver ketchin' that same dis'ase, av it wud
lave me loike this wan. What's that? What was it the haythen said
then, seenorita?"
"Not von vord, senor; he only vink von eye like maybe he flirt vid me."
"The Swade did that! Holy Mother! an' wid an O'Brien here to take the
part of any dacent gurl. Wait till I strip the coat off me.
Pages:
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314