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Nominally they were published; practically they were given away to any considerable purchaser. Some of these were written by Sharper himself. There was, for example, "The Romance of the Raspberry," of which the Dilborough Gazette had said: "An elegant little brochure." This was a great triumph. Even Diggle had to admit it.
Decorators were sending out for more size when I left. I can't go back there. Even if there were no spring-cleaning I couldn't go to Jawbones. Mabel gave me a list of things to buy in Dilborough. Glass soap and soft paper. I mean soft soap and glass paper. Lots of other things. I've forgotten to get any of them. All I can do is to sit here until the world comes to an end.
Brass knob on the front door blazing fit to blind you. No curtains at any of the windows. Sound like a carpet being beaten from the garden at the back. Sharper himself leaning out of upstairs window. Face ashen grey. Ears twitching. 'Don't come in, he calls out, 'I'll come down. Lunch in Dilborough. "Terrific noise of Sharper falling downstairs. Out he comes, rubbing knee. Hat bashed in.
Some people added the word Dilborough; some simply put Surrey; some merely England. They were known to everybody. Their motto "Perfect Purity" was in every daily paper every day. And during those weeks when the pickle manufacturing was going on, every little hamlet within a radius of twenty miles was aware of the fact if the wind set in that direction.
Luke smote the table once with his clenched fist, spilt his tea, and resumed his newspaper. "Further from Mabel," he thought, as he mounted his bike. "Every day, in every way, I'm getting further and further." About two miles from Dilborough he became suddenly aware that two motor-cars were approaching him. They were being driven abreast at racing speed, and occupied the whole of the road.
"Well, I shoved him into my cab, and drove back to the 'Crown' at Dilborough. On the way I tried to buck him up a bit, but it was no use. He was absolutely broken-down. I asked him whose turn it was to pay for lunch, and he said he thought it was mine. Memory going. Well, I stuffed a drink into him and took nine myself. I can tell you I needed them. Then I got him to go back to business.
You take the train into Dilborough and dine at the 'Crown. You might I don't say you will, but you might get a bit of a surprise. If you hurry you'll catch the 7.5." Luke thrust his wife's letter into his pocket, and hurried. "No," said the sad-eyed waiter, in reply to Luke's enquiry. "No, we do not serve the dinner on Sunday night.
Halfpenny Hole lay in the bottom of a slope seven miles from Dilborough. Dilborough was almost the same distance from Halfpenny Hole. Jawbones was, I think we must say, an old-world house, and had the date 1623 carved over the doorway. Luke Sharper had carved it himself.
"Yes, we have a certain amount of business in Dilborough. I'm generally down there once or twice a year. I walk over to Halfpenny Hole and lunch with Sharper. It's a seven mile walk. But lunch at the hotel is seven-and-six. Doing uncommonly well, is Sharper. He's in Pentlove, Postlethwaite and Sharper. You know. The only jams that really matter. Pickles, too. Chutney. Very hot stuff.
Fayther regrets emezingly he caint come, being called to attend the Duchess of Dilborough. He! he! he! he!" As we have already said that it was in pure compliment to the father that the son was invited, and not at all for the sake of his own company, his presence was a grievous aggravation of the disappointment. The next knock announced Miss Snubbleston. But where was her carriage?
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