The Courage of Marge O'Doone by James Oliver Curwood
page 35 of 291 (12%)
page 35 of 291 (12%)
![]() | ![]() |
|
one reason for the peculiar psychological value of beans. They begin to
tell you when you're getting weaned away from a lobster palate and a stuffed-crab stomach, and when you get to the point where you want 'em on your regular bill of fare you'll find more fun in chopping down a tree than in going to a grand opera. But the beans must be _cooked_ right, David--browned like a nut, juicy to the heart of 'em, and seasoned alongside a broiling duck or partridge, or a tender rabbit. Ah!" The Little Missioner rubbed his hands ecstatically. David's rejoinder, if one was on his lips, was interrupted by a violent cursing. The train was well under way, and the baggage-man had sat down to a small table with his back toward them. He had leaped to his feet now, his face furious, and with another demoniac curse he gave the coal skuttle a kick that sent it with a bang to the far end of the car. The table was littered with playing cards. "Damn 'em--they beat me this time in ten plays!" he yelled. "They've got the devil in 'em! If they was alive I'd jump on 'em! I've played this game of solitaire for nineteen years--I've played a million games--an' damned if I ever got beat in my life as it's beat me since we left Halifax!" "Dear Heaven!" gasped Father Roland. "Have you been playing all the way from Halifax?" The solitaire fiend seemed not to hear, and resuming his seat with a low and ominous muttering, he dealt himself another hand. In less than a minute he was on his feet again, shaking the cards angrily under the |
|