a high-pitched scream.
Prithee, gentle officer, / Handle me gingerly, or I fall to pieces, / Before I can plead mine.
“Why don’t you say some yourself?” the child asked, with wondering eyes. “I disremember them,” he answered.
“... One of those chaps over there said someone feagues his horse. What the hell’s ‘feague’?” / O’Reilly’s sides heaved. “Feague? You’d know it as a different expression, but it’s a trick unscrupulous horse dealers use to make a horse look better than it is. You can judge a horse’s spirit by the way it carries its tail.” / “That’s what he said.” / “So,” said O’Reilly, “just before the buyer comes to look at the beast, the dealer sticks a clove of ginger up its rectum. Feagues the poor creature.” / The thought made Barry wince.
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