"Anything else?" "Your waistcoat. I would that you were my own. The grim mockery of it!—those South Sea loafers, taking advantage of Enschede's Christianity and imposing upon him, accepting his money and medicines and laughing behind his back! No doubt they made the name a byword and a subject for ribald jest in the waterfront bars. "Och! he's a broth of a boy!" "Why, I thought he'd broken your head, Terry?" "Phooh! that's nothing? A piece o' plaster'll set all to rights; and Terry O'Flaherty's not the boy to care for the stroke of a supple-jack. The Procession to Tyburn 462 XXXII. I’ll pay it. But what can we do? Here am I, fixed to respectability and this laboratory; you’re living at home. ‘Ask him.
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