Mahony, as a resident, confirm
the report? Mahony regretted his ignorance, but spoke in praise of the
Golden City and its assured future.--"This would be most welcome news
to your father, sir. I can picture his satisfaction on hearing it."
--"Golly, Dick, that's no mopoke!" was Purdy's comment as they emerged
into the rain-swept street. "A crafty devil, if ever I see'd one."
"Henry Ocock seems to me to be a singularly able man," replied Mahony
drily. To his thinking, Purdy had cut a poor figure during the visit: he
had said no intelligent word, but had lounged lumpishly in his chair--
the very picture of the country man come up to the metropolis--and,
growing tired of this, had gone like a restless child to thrum his
fingers on the panes.
"Oh, you bet! He'll slither you through."
"What? Do you insinuate there's any need for slithering . . as you call
it?" cried Mahony.
"Why, Dick, old man. . . . And as long as he gets you through, what does
it matter?"
"It matters to me, sir!"
The rain, a tropical deluge, was over by the time they reached the
hollow. The sun shone again, hot and sticky, and people were venturing
forth from their shelters to wade through beds of mud, or to cross, on
planks, the deep, swift rivers formed by the open drains. There were
several such cloud-bursts in the course of the afternoon; and each time
the refuse of the city was whirled past on the flood, to be left as an
edging to the footpaths when the water went down.
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