“I killed a man, they
said, so they said;
I killed a man, they
said, so they said.
I killed a man they
said,
For I hit ’im
on the head,
And I left him there
for dead—
Damn your
eyes!”
“Hey! Shorty Kilrain!” bellowed the
aggravated host.
He turned to Bard.
“What’d you do with a bum like that for
a cook?”
“Pay him wages and keep him around to sing songs.
I like this one.
Listen!”
“They put me in the
quad—in the quad;
They put me in the quad—in
the quad.
They put me in the quad,
They chained me to a
rod,
And they left me there,
by God—
Damn your
eyes!”
“Kilrain, come here and make it fast or I’ll
damn your eyes!”
He explained to Bard: “Got to be hard with
these fellers or you never get nowhere with ’em.”
“Yo ho!” answered the voice of the singer,
and approached booming:
“The parson he did come,
he did come;
The parson he did come—did
come.
The parson he did come,
He looked almighty glum,
He talked of kingdom
come—.
Damn your
eyes!”
Shorty loomed in the doorway and caught his hand to
his forehead in a nautical salute. He had one
bad eye, and now it squinted as villainously as if
he were the real Sam’l Hall.
“Righto sir. What’ll you have, mate?”
“Don’t mate me, you igner’nt sweepin’
of the South Sea, but trot up some red-eye—and
gallop.”
The ex-sailor shifted his quid so that it stuck far
out in the opposite cheek with such violence of pressure
that a little spot of white appeared through the tan
of the skin. He regarded Lawlor for a silent
moment with bodeful eyes.
“What the hell are you lookin’ at?”
roared the other. “On your way!”
The features of Kilrain twitched spasmodically.
“Righto, sir.”
Another salute, and he was off, his voice coming back
less and less distinctly.
“So up the rope I’ll
go, I will go;
So up the rope I’ll
go—I’ll go.
So up the rope I’ll
go
With the crowd all down
below
Yelling, ‘Sam,
I told you so!’
Damn their
eyes!”
HAIR LIKE THE SUNSHINE
“Well,” grumbled Lawlor, settling back
comfortably into his chair, “one of these days
I’m goin’ to clean out my whole gang and
put in a new one. They maybe won’t be any
better but they can’t be any wuss.”
Nevertheless, he did not seem in the least downhearted,
but apparently had some difficulty in restraining
his broad grin.
The voice of the grim cook returned:
“I’ll see Nelly
in the crowd, in the crowd;
I’ll see Nelly
in the crowd, in the crowd;
I’ll see Nelly
in the crowd,
And I’ll holler
to her loud:
’Hey, Nelly, ain’t
you proud—
Damn your
eyes?’”
