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162 stories from 11 authors
“What a number of bond robberies there have been lately!” I observed one morning, laying aside the newspaper.
We were seated at breakfast one morning, my wife and I, when the maid brought in a telegram.
This subject of Latin that has been dinned into our ears for some time past recalls to my mind a story—a story of my youth.
North Richmond Street, being blind, was a quiet street except at the hour when the Christian Brothers’ School set the boys free.
The cars came scudding in towards Dublin, running evenly like pellets in the groove of the Naas Road.
The grey warm evening of August had descended upon the city and a mild warm air, a memory of summer, circulated in the streets.
The bell rang furiously and, when Miss Parker went to the tube, a furious voice called out in a piercing North of Ireland accent: “Send Farrington here!” Miss Parker returned to her machine, saying to a man who was writing at a desk: “Mr Alleyne wants you upstairs.” The man muttered “Blast him!” under his breath and pushed back his chair to stand up.
Old Jack raked the cinders together with a piece of cardboard and spread them judiciously over the whitening dome of coals.
Mr Calhoun Kidd was a very young gentleman with a very old face, a face dried up with its own eagerness, framed in blue-black hair and a black butterfly tie.