The Luck of the Mounted eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 241 pages of information about The Luck of the Mounted.

The Luck of the Mounted eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 241 pages of information about The Luck of the Mounted.

“Thank ye, Mister Yorke,” she ejaculated gratefully, “’tis a gentleman ye are,” she glowered a moment at the cottage, “which is more’n I kin say fur that mon o’ mine, th’ lazy good-fur-nothin’, . . . leavin’ me t’ pack all these things from th’ train!”

Like a tug drawing nigh to its mooring—­and nearly as broad in the beam—­she came to anchor on the front steps and kicked savagely at the door.  A momentary glimpse they got of Nick Lee’s face, in all its rubicund helplessness, and then the door banged to.  From an open window soon emerged the sounds as of a domestic broil.

“Talk av Home Rule, an’ ‘Th’ Voice that breathed o’er Eden’,” murmured Slavin.  “Blarney me sowl! just hark tu ut now?”

From the cottage’s interior came several high-pitched female squawks, punctuated by the ominous sounds as of violent thumps being rained upon a soft body, and suddenly the portal disgorged Lee—­in erratic haste.  His hat presently followed.  Dazedly awhile he surveyed the grinning trio of witnesses to his discomfiture; then, picking up his battered head-piece he crammed it down upon his bald cranium with a vicious, yet abject, gesture.

“Th’ missis seems onwell this mornin’,” he mumbled apologetically to Slavin, “I take it yore not a married man, Sarjint?”

“Eh?” ejaculated that worthy sharply, his levity gone on the instant.  “Who—­me?” Blankly he regarded the miserable face of his interlocutor, one huge paw of a hand softly and surreptitiously caressing its fellow, “Nay—­glory be!  I am not.”

“Har!” shrilled the Voice, its owner, fat red arms akimbo, blocking up the doorway, “Nick, me useless man! ye kin prate t’ me ‘bout arrestin’ hoboes.  I tell ye right now—­that hobo that was a-bummin’ roun’ here t’other mornin’s got nothin’ on you fur sheer, blowed-in-th’-glass laziness.”

“Fwhat?” Slavin violently contorting his grim face into a horrible semblance of persuasive gallantry edged cautiously towards the irate dame—­much the same as a rough-rider will “So, ho, now!” and sidle up to a bad horse.  “Mishtress Lee,” began he, in wheedling, dulcet tones, “fwhat mornin’ was that?”

That lady, her capacious, matronly bosom heaving with emotion, eyed him suspiciously a moment.  “Eh?” she snapped.  “Why th’ mornin’ after th’ night of racket between them two men at th’ hotel.  Th’ feller come bummin’ roun’ th’ back-door fur a hand-out—­all starved t’ death—­just before I took th’ train t’ Calgary.”  She dabbed at the false-front of red hair, which had become somewhat disarranged.  “La, la!” she murmured, “I’m all of a twitter!”

“Some hand-out tu,” remarked Slavin politely, “from th’ face av um. . . .  Fwhat was ut ye handed him, Mishtress Lee, might I ask?—­th’ flat-iron or th’ rollin’ pin?”

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Project Gutenberg
The Luck of the Mounted from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.