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"G'wa an' mind your ain bizness," says Sandy, jumpin' up, an' gien himsel' a shak. "The cairt's my nain; I can come doon afen't ony wey I like." The bobby gaed awa' rubbin' his chin. "Dod," he saya to Stumpie Mertin at the corner o' the street "that man Bowden's the queerest jeeger ever I cam across.
As a matter of fact no boat could help being steady and way-wise under their instant direction and companionship. Abel's boat and Jonathan Bowden's boat were as distinct and experienced personalities as the men themselves, and as inexpressive.
* James Bowden's "History of the Friends in America," vol. I, p. 389 This seems to have been the first definite movement towards a Quaker colony. Reports of it reached the ears of young Penn at Oxford and set his imagination aflame. He never forgot the project, for seventeen is an age when grand thoughts strike home.
She went to bed, as a matter of course, but tossed about with throbbing heart and whirling brain. Mr. Bowden's information had effectually banished sleep. In about an hour, when the house was absolutely quiet, came a soft tap at her door. She jumped up hastily, threw on her dressing-gown, and opened it. Everard stood in the passage outside. "May I come in? I want to speak to you, Sissy!
Mrs Sandryl-Kempton sat before the fire in her wide, airy, faded drawing-room, and thought of the Theodore Vellan of old days, and wondered what the present Lord Vellan would be like. She had got a note from him that morning, despatched from Southampton the day before, announcing, 'I shall be in town to-morrow at Bowden's Hotel, in Cork Street, and asking when he might come to her.
M. Haillot, of Paris, formerly accountant and book-keeper, was in temporary charge of this mine and of Abosu during Mr. Bowden's absence. I shall give further detail on my return march. Creswick. My notes on this establishment must also be reserved for a future page.
It was gey slow wark for Sandy though, an' I think he had gotten tired, for the laddies roond aboot me began to say, "There was thirteen ba's i' that lest over; I think Sandy Bowden's dreamin'," an' so on. I think mysel' Sandy had been doverin', for the ba' hut Batchy's wicket, an' every ane o' the loons playin' gae a yowl at the same meenit "How's that?"
There's twa things Sandy Bowden's haen sin' ever I got acquant wi' him an' that's no' the day nor yesterday that's fairntickles an' cheepin' buits. I never kent Sandy bein' withoot a pair o' 'lastic-sided buits that gaed squakin' to the kirk like twa croakin' hens.
I'm shure I'm no complainin', but Sandy Bowden's been an unsatisfaktory man in mony weys; but, as the Bible says, we've a' a dwang o' some kind, an' if I hadna gotten Sandy, weel, I michta haen a drucken son, or a licht-heided dauchter. Wha can tell? We've a' a hankie mair than we deserve, nae doot. I ken I have onywey; but that's nether here nor there.
Dom Anselm Bowden's way of walking and the patch of grease at the shoulder of his cowl, never removed, and visible as he went before him into the church was as distractingly irritating as Ralph's contempt; the buzz in the voice of a cantor who seemed always to sing on great days was as distressing as his own dog's perversity at Overfield, or the snapping of a bow-string.
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