Showing posts with label John Sebastian Moran. Show all posts
Showing posts with label John Sebastian Moran. Show all posts

Monday, 16 July 2012

His own front-door step



. . . one thing the sight of her distress did for me: I resolved that if Tiger Jack Moran was still alive on Friday morning, it wouldn’t be for want of effort on my part. If the worst came to the worst I’d stalk him home that Thursday night and kill him on his own front-door step and take my chance. (That’s what being a doting grandparent can do to you.)


Flashman and the Tiger, p.304, Harper Collins, paperback edition 2000.



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Friday, 29 June 2012

Bayete, Udloko



Moran reversed his revolver in his hand and pushed it into the back of his sash. Then he tilted his hat back and flicked his forefinger at its brim.
       “Bayete, Udloko,” says he softly. “I do like a snap shot, though. Give the gentleman a coconut.”


Flashman and the Tiger, p.286, Harper Collins, paperback edition 2000.



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Thursday, 28 June 2012

Between terror and sheer admiration



He hit three more Zulus — this at a range of two hundred yards, from a wagon that was bucking like a ship at sea, and at moving targets. I tell you, I was stricken between terror and sheer admiration.


Flashman and the Tiger, p.284, Harper Collins, paperback edition 2000.


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Wednesday, 27 June 2012

In his prime



. . . if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes I’d not have believed it — and I knew Hickok in his prime, remember, before his eyesight went, and John Wesley Hardin, too.


Flashman and the Tiger, p.282, Harper Collins, paperback edition 2000.


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Tuesday, 26 June 2012

Everywhere but into mine



Chelmsford’s wiped out, you say?” The blue eyes looked everywhere but into mine; I wouldn’t have trusted this fellow with the mess funds in a hurry.



Flashman and the Tiger, p.281, Harper Collins, paperback edition 2000.


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Tuesday, 19 June 2012

Towards an honoured grave



But there I was, I say, at a time when I ought to have had nothing to do but drink my way gently towards an honoured grave, spend my wife’s fortune, gorge at the best places, leer at the young women, and generally enjoy a dissolute old age — and suddenly I had to kill Tiger Jack. Nothing else for it.


Flashman and the Tiger, p.274, Harper Collins, paperback edition 2000.


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