From 9f3aee8f5a0fb3a01865a6adba3d40a5e772396f Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001 From: Alex Cabal Date: Fri, 3 Apr 2020 22:35:20 -0500 Subject: [PATCH] Fix typos --- src/epub/text/a-ruler-of-men.xhtml | 2 +- src/epub/text/an-afternoon-miracle.xhtml | 2 +- 2 files changed, 2 insertions(+), 2 deletions(-) diff --git a/src/epub/text/a-ruler-of-men.xhtml b/src/epub/text/a-ruler-of-men.xhtml index f550149..4602dce 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/a-ruler-of-men.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/a-ruler-of-men.xhtml @@ -34,7 +34,7 @@

Thus, because of our ancient prescience of each other’s trail of thought, we travelled ambiguously to the point where Kansas Bill’s story began:

“I met O’Connor in a boardinghouse on the West Side. He invited me to his hall-room to have a drink, and we became like a dog and a cat that had been raised together. There he sat, a tall, fine, handsome man, with his feet against one wall and his back against the other, looking over a map. On the bed and sticking three feet out of it was a beautiful gold sword with tassels on it and rhinestones in the handle.

“ ‘What’s this?’ says I (for by that time we were well acquainted). ‘The annual parade in vilification of the ex-snakes of Ireland? And what’s the line of march? Up Broadway to Forty-second; thence east to McCarty’s café; thence⁠—’

-

“ ‘Sit down on the washstand,’ says O’Connor, ‘and listen. And cast no perversions on the sword. ’Twas me father’s in old Munster. And this map, Bowers, is no diagram of a holiday procession. If ye look again. ye’ll see that it’s the continent known as South America, comprising fourteen green, blue, red, and yellow countries, all crying out from time to time to be liberated from the yoke of the oppressor.’

+

“ ‘Sit down on the washstand,’ says O’Connor, ‘and listen. And cast no perversions on the sword. ’Twas me father’s in old Munster. And this map, Bowers, is no diagram of a holiday procession. If ye look again, ye’ll see that it’s the continent known as South America, comprising fourteen green, blue, red, and yellow countries, all crying out from time to time to be liberated from the yoke of the oppressor.’

“ ‘I know,’ says I to O’Connor. ‘The idea is a literary one. The ten-cent magazine stole it from “Ridpath’s History of the World from the Sandstone Period to the Equator.” You’ll find it in every one of ’em. It’s a continued story of a soldier of fortune, generally named O’Keefe, who gets to be dictator while the Spanish-American populace cries “Cospetto!” and other Italian maledictions. I misdoubt if it’s ever been done. You’re not thinking of trying that, are you, Barney?’ I asks.

“ ‘Bowers,’ says he, ‘you’re a man of education and courage.’

“ ‘How can I deny it?’ says I. ‘Education runs in my family; and I have acquired courage by a hard struggle with life.’

diff --git a/src/epub/text/an-afternoon-miracle.xhtml b/src/epub/text/an-afternoon-miracle.xhtml index bcbcf46..99c304d 100644 --- a/src/epub/text/an-afternoon-miracle.xhtml +++ b/src/epub/text/an-afternoon-miracle.xhtml @@ -35,7 +35,7 @@

“He went down this side street,” said the bartender. “He was alone, and he’ll hide out till night when his gang comes over. You ought to find him in that Mexican layout below the depot. He’s got a girl down there⁠—Pancha Sales.”

“How was he armed?” asked Buckley.

“Two pearl-handled sixes, and a knife.”

-

“Keep this for me, Billy,” said the ranger, handing over his Winchester. quixotic, perhaps, but it was Bob Buckley’s way. Another man⁠—and a braver one⁠—might have raised a posse to accompany him. It was Buckley’s rule to discard all preliminary advantage.

+

“Keep this for me, Billy,” said the ranger, handing over his Winchester. Quixotic, perhaps, but it was Bob Buckley’s way. Another man⁠—and a braver one⁠—might have raised a posse to accompany him. It was Buckley’s rule to discard all preliminary advantage.

The Mexican had left behind him a wake of closed doors and an empty street, but now people were beginning to emerge from their places of refuge with assumed unconsciousness of anything having happened. Many citizens who knew the ranger pointed out to him with alacrity the course of Garcia’s retreat.

As Buckley swung along upon the trail he felt the beginning of the suffocating constriction about his throat, the cold sweat under the brim of his hat, the old, shameful, dreaded sinking of his heart as it went down, down, down in his bosom.