"And this shall be my knell, be my knell;
And this shall be my knell—my knell.
And this shall be my knell:
'Sam, I hope you go to hell,
Sam, I hope you sizzle well—
Damn your eyes!'"
Shorty Kilrain appeared in the doorway, his mouth wide on the last, long, wailing note.
"Shorty," said Lawlor, with a sort of hopeless sadness, "ain't you never been educated to sing no better songs than that?"
"Why, you old, grey-headed—" began Shorty, and then stopped short and hitched his trousers violently.
Lawlor pushed the bottle of whisky and glass toward Bard.
"Help yourself." And to Kilrain, who was leaving the room: "Come back here."
"Well?" snarled the sailor, half turning at the door.
"While I'm runnin' this here ranch you're goin' to have manners, see?"
"If manners was like your whiskers," said the unabashed Shorty, "it'd take me nigh onto thirty years to get 'em."
And he winked at Bard for sympathy.