For a moment he was paralyzed.
"Well, of all the--Did ye see that now?" he said to me with his
eyes. Then he made a rush and snatched the biscuit out of Smith's
very jaws. "Ye onprincipled black Saxon thief," growled The
O'Shannon; "how dare ye take my biscuit?"
"You miserable Irish cur," growled Smith; "how was I to know it was
your biscuit? Does everything on the floor belong to you? Perhaps
you think I belong to you, I'm on the floor. I don't believe it is
your biscuit, you long-eared, snubbed-nosed bog-trotter; give it me
back."
"I don't require any of your argument, you flop-eared son of a tramp
with half a tail," replied The O'Shannon. "You come and take it, if
you think you are dog enough."
He did think he was dog enough. He is half the size of The
O'Shannon, but such considerations weigh not with him. His argument
is, if a dog is too big for you to fight the whole of him, take a
bit of him and fight that. He generally gets licked, but what is
left of him invariably swaggers about afterwards under the
impression it is the victor. When he is dead, he will say to
himself, as he settles himself in his grave--"Well, I flatter myself
I've laid out that old world at last.
Pages:
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282