Beadle's Half Dime Library, No. 67 — page 13: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

a — as — = _ OT El — ALWAYS ON HAND: THE SPORTIVE SPORT OF THE FOOT-HILLS. BY PHILLIP 8. WARNE, AUTHOR OF ‘‘ ELEGANT EGBERT,” ‘‘ TIGER DICK,” ‘‘A HARD CROWD,” ‘*‘THE KIDNAPPER,” ETC., ETC. CHAPTER I. A BOLD BLOW. ‘‘ WHurkoo, tha-ur! Kape it a-goin, b’ys!” Tappity-tappity-tappity-tap! ‘ Hyah! hya-a-ah!” Shuffle! shuffle! shuffle! ‘* Now ye have it—see ye kape it!” Tappity-tap! Tappity-tap! ‘* Gib dis hyar chile room!” Shuff! shuff! shufflety! shuff! ‘‘ Owld Oirland furiver! Ballyhoolagan to the fore!” Jappity-tap-tap! Tap! tap! tap! ‘« Cl’ar de ribber fur dese hyar Lincum gun-boats! ’Fore de Lo’d, I’s a-comin’!” Shufflety-shuff! shuff! shuff! ‘‘ Wade in thar, you son o’ darkness, I’ve got a saw-buck up on them bandy legs.” ‘‘ All right, massa, Dat saw-buck’s all hunk, fur sure.” ‘“T’ll peel ye, if it hain’t.” “Shake them thar brogans lively! My pile’s up on you! Ye shall swim in whisky if ye hold yer own; but not a drop if you let Sambo git away with ye.” ‘‘ Divil swape the nagur that kin git away wid Bryan o’ Ballyhoolagan!” ‘You Irish! better shut up dat ’ar clam-trap "fore you git me fly-blowed.” — ‘‘ Stow yer chin-music, an’ ’tend strictly to business. Now, boys, all together!” Pat! pat! pat! pat! A scene of wildest hilarity, as if Puck, the mischievous sprite, had possessed a score of satyrs. A long, low-ceiled room, With rude tables and benches nailed to fhe walls, and at the further end a bar, displaying an array of decanters, long-necked black bottles and gob- lets. In the middle of the sanded floor a ‘‘ Frenchman from Cork ” and an American citizen from Dixie had abandoned themselves to the wildest rivalry of break-down and jig. Around were grouped perhaps a score of such specimens of humanity as only the Wild West has produced. Men with beards like tangled brushwood and hair that must have forgotten the very name of comb—woolen shirts that were never washed until their multitudinous insect life or filth became no longer endurable—breeches so begrimed with grease and dirt that they might almost have been mis- taken for leather—‘“ stogie” boots, yellow with clay, whose sanctity no brush had ever violated, as rough as oak-bark and as tough as horn. Only one thing about them was ever cleaned—the univer- gal ‘‘ six-shooter!” These men were patting ‘“‘ Juba” in time with the dan- cers, Who were vying with each other in the production of the most grotesque attitudes and the wildest antics. On that circle of brutal faces was depicted a ferocious eagerness, Which might be received as a fit prefiguration of the mirth of Satan’s imps. In their rage these men were devils—in their sport they were devils still. Oaths the most blasphemous burdened every sentence that fell from their lips, and the epithets with which they ad- dressed each other, in their jocularity, were foul beyond de- scription. The sport was at its hight. The room rung with hoarse laughter, shouts of encouragement, challenges to bet, and eriticisms more forcible than elegant. Always On Hand. eee —- —EE —— -_ —EE Hibernia, with his arms akimbo, his hat (the band confin- ing the traditional ‘‘ stump of a pipe”) set on one side, and his long and bristling upper lip bowed by a confident smile, was shaking leg in a style that would have caused Terpsi- chore some surprise. Dixie had cast his hat on the door in the abandon of en- joyment. His rolling eyes threatened to leap from their sockets. His grin would have made an alligator envious. How his arms and legs retained their attachment to his body was a miracle. This scene was unexpectedly interrupted by a-vigorous thumping in the vicinity of the door, and an irascible voice calling . ‘‘Pat! Sam! You infernal scoundrels! What are you doing here? Must I run all over the world for you every time tiie stage stops? Confound you! Ill give you a ‘drub- bing each, if I am annoyed in this way again. Come out of here, I say!” The effect on the dancers was magical. As if operated by the same spring, which had suddenly broken, both stopped at the same instant. Pat straightened his hat on his head, while Sam snatched his up from the floor, and both crouched and drew near to each other in comical dismay. Muttered Pat: ** Divil swape the loike av us!” While Sam cried : **’Fore de Lo’d! Dar’s Massa Haveland!” With looks of not pleased surprise, the other occupants of the room turned to see who had so unceremoniously inter- rupted their sport. In the doorway stood an elderly gentleman, the cut and cleanliness of whose garments showed that he was from “ the States,” His face was purple with choler, and his eyes fairly snapped between the beetling, grizzled brows. In his hand he carried a heavy cane, with which he again thumped the floor; * Pat!” ‘* Yis, yer honor.” Pat doffed his hat and held it in both hands, with an air of deprecating humility. ‘Fetch your red-headed carcass out of here instantly!” commanded the old gentleman. ‘'Yis, yer honor,” said Pat, respectfully. Sam, who had crouched behind his fellow-culprit, out of sight of the old gentleman, leered around at the crowd with a pantomime of a *‘ hyah! hyah!” which made him look not unlike the pumpkin with a candle in it which beys call ‘* Jack o’-lantern.” At the same time he patted his own woolly head to draw attention to the opprobrivus reference which had been made to Pat’s ‘ sorrel-top.” ‘“Red Head! Hyah! hyah!” he whispered, just loud enough for the Irishman to hear him. ‘* May the divil fly away wid me!” began the Celt, below his breath, shaking his fist slyly behind him at the chuckling negro. But a sharp interruption came. ‘* Sam! you black raseal!” Sambo, who from enjoyment of his comrade’s discomfi- ture had felt a strong inclination to rollon the floor, was now “ fetch-up with a round turn.’’ The sudden change of his countenance from the most ex- travagant contortions of mirth to the sober decorum of deep humility and contrition was ludicrous in the extreme. ‘* Yes, Massa Haveland,” he said, in lampblike accents. ‘ Whurroo! you black Teast!” muttered Pat behind his hat, and his ecstasy was ill concealed. ‘‘Come out of there! If you loiter an instant, I'll use your woolly pate for a football!” “ Woolly pate!” repeated Pat, with malicious relish. ‘“‘T’s a-comin’, Massa Haveland,” said Sam, meekly. But he gave his tormentor a sly kick on the leg, and mut- tered : Eomichooks.com ———_ EE