"I grant you victor, Senor O'Halloran. Would it render your
victory less embarrassing if I were to give you material
immediately for that bulletin on suicide?" He asked the question
quite without emotion, as courteously as if he were proposing a
stroll through the gardens.
O'Halloran had never liked the man. The Irish in him had always
boiled at his tyranny. But he had never disliked him so little as
at this moment. The fellow had pluck, and that was one certain
passport to the revolutionist's favor.
"On the contrary, it would distress me exceedingly. Let us
reserve that bulletin as a regrettable possibility in the event
that less drastic measures fail."
"Which means, I infer, that you have need of me before I pass by
the Socratic method," he suggested, still with that pale smile
set in granite "I shall depend on you to let me know at what
precise hour you would like to order an epitaph written for me.
Say the word at your convenience, and within five minutes your
bulletin concerning the late governor will have the merit of
truth."
"Begad, excellency, I like your spirit. If it's my say-so, you
will live to be a hundred.
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