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"And who be that stout, good-looking man in a blue coat and velvet collar next him, just rubbing his chin with the race card he'll be a lord too, I suppose?" "No, that's Mr. Gully, as honest a man as ever came here, that's Crockford before him. The man on the right is Mr.
Do you happen to possess a clerical directory?" The vicar produced a "Crockford", and Bryce turned over its pages. Mr. Gilwaters, who from the account there given appeared to be an elderly man who had now retired, lived in London, in Bayswater, and Bryce made a note of his address and prepared to depart. "Find any names that interested you?" asked the vicar as his caller left.
A crowd of people used to collect at Hyde Park Corner to see a rich man pass. "Here comes old Crockie!" and the crowd would separate to allow him to pass, amidst whispers of admiration. It was old Crockford, who made a large fortune by keeping a gambling-house. "The very sound of millions," says Mrs. Gore, "tickles the ear of an Englishman!
"I suppose," she reflected, "that man Crockford thought I was very cruel to-day." "I will tell you Crockford's point of view," Segerson replied. "He doesn't exactly understand what your aims are, and wherever he goes he hears nothing but praise of the way you have treated your tenants and the way you have tried to turn them into small landowners.
Byron must have known Crockford, and he had there a chance of studying a being who was indeed a villain, but who fancied himself to be a highly respectable person.
Going home the water was high, and so I got Crockford to carry me over it. So home, and left my money there. All the discourse now-a-day is, that the King will come again; and for all I see, it is the wishes of all; and all do believe that it will be so. My mind is still much troubled for my poor wife, but I hope that this undertaking will be worth my pains.
Several tracts of land which seemed prepared for winter sowing were covered with stones. The farmhouse yard, into which they presently passed, was dirty and untidy. Segerson leaned down and knocked on the door with his whip. After a short delay, a slatternly-looking woman, with tousled fair hair, answered the summons. "Mr. Crockford in?" Segerson asked.
'Castle Ashby, Northampton, Oct. 17th, 1837. Sir, Though an utter stranger, I think you will excuse my troubling you with this present letter: but I will not waste your time with a lengthened apology. I must confess that I am not of his exceeding admirers, and should by no means be disposed to place him in the same rank with Hogg, or even with Bloomfield and Crockford.
There was an old peerage and a Crockford together with the books of recipes, the Whitaker's Almanack, the Old Moore's Almanack, and the eighteenth century dictionary, on the little dresser that broke the cupboards on one side of my mother's room; there was another peerage, with the covers off, in the pantry; there was a new peerage in the billiard-room, and I seem to remember another in the anomalous apartment that held the upper servants' bagatelle board and in which, after the Hall dinner, they partook of the luxury of sweets.
"I have come to tell you that I shall not be prepared to renew it." The man simply blinked at her. His fuddled brain was not equal to grappling with such a catastrophe. "Your farm is favourably situated," she continued, "and, although small, has great possibilities. I find you are dropping behind your neighbours and your crops are poorer each season. Have you saved any money, Crockford?"
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