The Luck of the Mounted - A Tale of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police by Ralph S. Kendall
page 18 of 225 (08%)
page 18 of 225 (08%)
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Dumfounded himself, George looked from one to the other, "What the
devil's wrong with you fools?" he queried irritably. Thereupon, McCullough, still holding the eyes of the Cockney, gasped out one magical word--"Yorkey!" The spell was broken. "W'y, gorblimey!" said Hardy, "Ain't that queer?--that's jes' wot I wos a-thinkin' . . . Well, Gawd 'elp Sorjint Slavin now!" With which cryptic utterance he resumed his eternal polishing. "Amen!" responded the farrier piously, "Reddy, here, an' Yorkey on th' same detachment. . . . What th' one don't know t'other'll teach him. . . . You'd better let 'em have th' parrot, too." McSporran, back on his cot with hands clasped behind his head, gobbled an owlish "Hoot, mon! th' twa o' them thegither! . . . Losh! but that beats a' . . . but, hoo lang, O Lard? hoo lang?" From various sources George had picked up the broken ends of many strange rumours relating to the personality and escapades of one Constable Yorke, of the Davidsburg detachment, whom he had never seen as yet. A hint here, a whisper there, a shrug and a low-voiced jest between the sergeant-major and the quartermaster, overheard one day in the Matter's store. To Redmond it seemed as if a veil of mystery had always enveloped the person and doings of this man, Yorke. The glamour of it now aroused all his latent curiosity. "Why, what sort of a chap is this Yorke?" he inquired casually. |
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