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“Charlie put his hand on my shoulder and smiled. ‘You’re a rum bastard, Paddy.’ ‘Them,’ said I, ‘are the truest words you ever said.’ We walked over some more sand heaps and, at last, 538 Jones stood on the top, looking down at the sea, as if he’d made it himself. We stood beside him and looked down at the sun on the water. ‘Me life on you, Jonesy,’ said I. ‘You’re like Stout Cortez when with eagle eyes, he stared at the Pacific—and all his men looked at each other with a wild surmise, silent, upon a peak in Darien. By Jasus, this equals any fughing Darien.” — Brendan Behan
Charlie put his hand on my shoulder and smiled. ‘You’re a rum bastard, Paddy.’ ‘Them,’ said I, ‘are the truest words you ever said.’
We walked over some more sand heaps and, at last, 538 Jones stood on the top, looking down at the sea, as if he’d made it himself.
We stood beside him and looked down at the sun on the water. ‘Me life on you, Jonesy,’ said I. ‘You’re like Stout Cortez when with eagle eyes, he stared at the Pacific—and all his men looked at each other with a wild surmise, silent, upon a peak in Darien. By Jasus, this equals any fughing Darien.