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Still, I don't deny I'm afeared some things didn't go well with He and his." Creedle nodded in a direction which signified where the Melburys lived. "I'm afraid, too, that it was a failure there!" "If so, 'twere doomed to be so. Not but what that snail might as well have come upon anybody else's plate as hers." "What snail?"

Not that I should call'n maister by rights, for his father growed up side by side with me, as if one mother had twinned us and been our nourishing." "I s'pose your memory can reach a long way back into history, Mr. Creedle?" "Oh yes. Ancient days, when there was battles and famines and hang-fairs and other pomps, seem to me as yesterday.

Giles found that Creedle, in his zeal to make things look bright, had smeared the chairs with some greasy kind of furniture-polish, and refrained from rubbing it dry in order not to diminish the mirror-like effect that the mixture produced as laid on. Giles apologized and called Creedle; but he felt that the Fates were against him.

When he got nearer he recognized among the workmen the two Timothys, and Robert Creedle, who probably had been "lent" by Winterborne; Marty South also assisted. Each tree doomed to this flaying process was first attacked by Creedle.

All his listeners knew that when he alluded to his foot-lathe in these enigmatic terms, the speaker meant to be impressive; and Creedle chimed in with, "Ah, young women do wax wanton in these days! Why couldn't she ha' bode with her father, and been faithful?" Poor Creedle was thinking of his old employer. "But this deceiving of folks is nothing unusual in matrimony," said Farmer Bawtree.

She did not know that in the slight commotion caused by their arrival at the inn that afternoon Winterborne had caught sight of her through the archway, had turned red, and was continuing his work with more concentrated attention on the very account of his discovery. Robert Creedle, too, who travelled with Giles, had been incidentally informed by the hostler that Dr.

But Creedle carried about with him on his uneventful rounds these silent testimonies of war, sport, and adventure, and thought nothing of their associations or their stories.

Meanwhile, in the empty house from which the guests had just cleared out, the subject of their discourse was walking from room to room surveying the general displacement of furniture with no ecstatic feeling; rather the reverse, indeed. At last he entered the bakehouse, and found there Robert Creedle sitting over the embers, also lost in contemplation. Winterborne sat down beside him.

Charmond, the owner of the surrounding woods and groves. "My brother-in-law told me, and I have no reason to doubt it," said Creedle, "that she'd sit down to her dinner with a frock hardly higher than her elbows.

And I don't care who the man is, I says that a stick of celery that isn't scrubbed with the scrubbing-brush is not clean." "Very well, very well! I'll attend to it. You go and get 'em comfortable in-doors." He hastened to the garden, and soon returned, tossing the stalks to Creedle, who was still in a tragic mood.