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The other rose, stood swaying with pinching fingers, tremulous lips. "I'm afraid I can't make it," he whimpered. "Sit down," Harry Baggs told him abruptly; "I'll go. Too late now to try pulling you up. Whatever it is, it's got you." It was warm, almost hot. He walked slowly down the road toward the town. On the left was a smooth lawn, with great stately trees, a long gray stone house beyond.
Baggs stood and looked down, as he had done when Henry Ironsyde came to his grave. "Life, how short eternity, how long," he said to John Best. Ernest Churchouse opened the door of the mourning coach as he had done on the previous occasion, and Miss Ironsyde alighted, followed by Raymond. He had come. But he had changed even to the visible eye.
Harry Baggs loafed about the camp until the other returned with the failing of light. "The sales about the country are all that get the people together now," he reported; "the parks are empty till July. There's to be one tomorrow about eight miles away; we'll try it." He went to the shelter, where he secured a scarred violin, with roughly shaped pegs and lacking a string.
"When I first heard you I thought: 'Here, perhaps, is a great voice, a voice for Paris; but I was mistaken. You have some bigness yes, good enough for street ballads, sentimental popularities; that is all." An overwhelming depression settled upon Harry Baggs, a sense of irremediable loss.
The emphasis on the last word was not unheeded by the bystanders; they looked at each other with as much astonishment as Enders were capable of displaying, and thrust their hands deep into the pockets of their pantaloons, in token of their inability to handle the case. Baggs spoke again. "I wish mother was here!" he said. "She'd know just to say and how to say it."
"In fact, I believe pretty well everybody's going but Levi Baggs." "I'm glad. We'll have the two wagonettes from 'The Seven Stars' as usual. If you are going into Bridport you might tell Missis Legg." "The two big ones we shall want, and they must be here sharp at six o'clock," declared Mr. Best. "There's nothing like getting off early.
Pollock, after a hurried gulp of coffee, "that there's likely to be a strike of the street-car men up there." "You don't say so," said Doc Simpson, looking so concerned that one might have been led to suspect that he was dismayed over the prospect of getting to his office the next day. "What's the world coming to?" sighed Maude Baggs Pollock nervously. "Strikes, strikes everywhere.
The father was one of the Jervaises' tenants.... A superior kind of young woman in some ways, I've heard; and a friend of the youngest Jervaise girl ... you wouldn't remember her ... she went with her friend to Australia or somewhere ... some quixotic idea of protecting her, I believe ... and married out there. The farmer's name was Baggs.
He borrowed a rusted razor and subjected himself to the pain of an awkward shaving; then inadequately washed his sole shirt and looped the frayed collar with a nondescript tie. The night was immaculate; the moon, past the full, cast long segments of light and shadow across the countryside. Harry Baggs drew a deep breath: "We might as well go."
Baggs looked at it lost in an instant some of the fine color plentifully diffused over her face by sleep and spirits sat down in the nearest chair with a thump that seemed to threaten the very foundations of Number Two, Zion Place and stared me hard in the face; the most speechless and helpless elderly female I ever beheld. "Take plenty of time to compose yourself ma'am," I said.
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