Though the houses out here are not quite waterproof, But they’re illigant houses for studying astronomy— You can lie on your back and read stars through the roof P.S.—This is cramped—if there’s no one to read it, Send for Tim Murphy, he’ll know every stroke.
If we find a mob of horses when the paddock rails are down, Although before they’re never known to stray, Oh, quickly will we drive them to some distant inland town, And sell them into slav’ry far away.
CLUB A club there is established here, whose name they say is Legion From Melbourne to the Billabong, they’re known in every region.
The rules and regulations, they’re not difficult of learning, They are to live upon the cash which others have been earning.
They’re made quite specially for me in Madrid.”
“They’re the Sisters of St. Agatha, I believe they call them.
They’re very quiet neighbors, and they go away in the summer usually, except Sister Theresa.
“There’s two for the gates in the outer wall and one for the St. Agatha’s gate; they’re marked, as you see.
“Of course they’re mine,” she said indignantly, and turned to go.
They’re from all over—Cincinnati, Chicago, Cleveland, Indianapolis.”
I’ll put my hand on them if you will kindly tell me where they’re kept.”
“I don’t play for services; they’re afraid to let me for fear I’d run comic-opera tunes into the Te Deum!”
They’re sending me off.”
“But I suppose they’re awfully strict, the Sisters.”
“They’re hideous,—perfectly hideous.”
You see, they’re badgering the Government at home because I’m not apprehended, and they’ve got to catch and hang me to show that they’ve really got their hands on the Irish situation.
“They’re great chums, you know!”
“Possibly, but they’re giving you a lively boycott.
“They’re loose—these bricks are loose, and there’s something besides earth behind them!”
“They’re coming across the lake, sir,” he reported, and instantly the sheriff’s head disappeared, and as we ran toward the house we heard his horse pounding down the road toward St. Agatha’s.
“They’re not shooting,” called Stoddard.
“They’re not a bit anxious to kill me.”
CHAPTER XXVI THE FIGHT IN THE LIBRARY “They’re coming faster this time,” remarked Stoddard.
That door was his pride, sir,—it came from a famous house in England, and they’re wrecking it, sir, as though it were common pine.”