saulted part, and with his head upon his folded arms, continued to render up his spirit with the calm dignity of a Chieftain of Clan Alpine.
Here it was that the Vice displayed that lack of complete sense of the fitness of things, perfect histrionic taste, and absolute reliability which occasionally caused sorrow and chagrin to the President.
Raising his blood-stained weapon aloft in both hands, he flourished it above the prostrate body of the Chieftain, and, then (alas, that this faithful though eaves-dropping chronicler must painfully set it forth), brought it down with a resounding thwack upon the proud Gael's exiguous kilt—even as he murmured, all unsuspecting such baseness:—
"Oh, Golly! I am slain at last!"
But the while he stiffened and grew cold in rigor mortis, he opened one eye, glared at the swaggering victor, and hissed, with deadly meaning, "Yes, I'll be Fizz-James next time!"
