And by a
special dispensation of an all-wise Providence, Red November must have
been preoccupied when he loaded that gun, for somehow a steel-jacketed
instead of a soft-nosed bullet got into the chamber he wasted on you.
Otherwise you'd have been pretty badly smashed. As it is, you'll
probably be laid up only a few days."
"I told you I wasn't so badly hurt--"
"God's good to the Irish. Where's your bathroom?"
With a gesture Kenny indicated its location.
"And handkerchiefs--?"
"Upper bureau drawer in the bedroom."
In a twinkling P. Sybarite was off and back again with materials for
an antiseptic wash and a rude bandage.
"How'd you know I was Irish?" demanded the patient.
"By yoursilf's name," quoth P. Sybarite in a thick brogue as natural
as grass, while he worked away busily. "'Tis black Irish, and well I
know it. 'Twas me mither's maiden name--Kenny. She had a brother,
Michael he was and be way av bein' a rich conthractor in this very
town as ever was, befure he died--God rist his sowl! He left two
children--a young leddy who mis-spells her name M-a-e A-l-y-s--keep
still!--and Peter, yersilf, me cousin, if it's not mistaken I am."
"The Lord save us!" said the boy. "You're never Percy Sybarite!"
P. Sybarite winced. "Not so loud!" he pleaded in a stage whisper.
"Some one might hear you."
"What the devil's the matter with you?"
"I am that man you named--but, prithee, Percy me no Percevals, an'
you'd be my friend.
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