“Here’s where we will put our dead,” he said, with a lugubrious grin, let down the lid softly and crossed abruptly to the roomiest and coziest chair beside the curtained window. After another sweeping glance about the room he stretched his arms and yawned.
“Reckon I better sleep off that jag the pater presented me over the wire,” he chuckled, and down he slid into the soft upholstery, raising his long legs upon another chair and sighing with deep contentment. His eyes roved about the room for a moment, when he smiled suddenly and quoted:
|
Why, let the stricken deer go weep; The hart ungalled play, For some must watch, while some must sleep: So runs the world away. |
And upon the suggestion of the immortal bard he chose the sleeper’s end of it and passed away.
CHAPTER XXIV.
AUNTIE TAKES THE TRAIL.
“Mix a tablespoonful of corn starch with a quarter of a cupful of water. Stir this into a cupful of boiling water, and boil for two minutes; then add the juice and rind of a lemon and a cupful of sugar, and cook three minutes longer. Beat an egg very light, and pour the boiling mixture over it. Return to the fire and cook a minute longer, stirring all the while––a most tasty lemon sauce”–––
“T’ ’ell wit’ these limon sauces!” exploded Michael Phelan, hurling the book across the room and bounding from his chair. “Sure ’n I’ll niver be able to look a limon in the face agin. Limon, limon, limon––these blame books are filled wit’ ’em. ’Tis a limon I am mesilf an’ all fer a limon colored bill. But I’ll not stand it a minute longer, shut down into this tomb wit’ nothin’ but mice fer comp’ny. Wurra! Wurra! Rose O’Neil, but your blue eyes an’ your black hair an’ your divilish smiles have spelled me finish.”