United States or Bermuda ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
So the next thing is, we want a house." "But," said the girl, "who ever heard of a house to let hereabouts!" Mr. Jope's face fell. "Ain't there none? An' it seemed so retired, too, an' handy near Plymouth." "There's not a house to let in St. Dilp parish, unless it be the Rectory." Mr. Jope's face brightened. "Then we'll take the Rectory," he said. "Where is it?"
The barber a slip of a fellow in rusty top-hat and suit of rusty black sat in the stern-sheets face to face with a large cask; a cask so ample that, to find room for his knees, he was forced to crook them at a high, uncomfortable angle. In the bows, boathook in hand, stood a tall sailor, arrayed in shore-going clothes similar to Mr. Jope's.
Jope's countenance. "No, most certainly not. . . . But, my good man, an embalmer! and at Botusfleming, of all places!" The sailor's face fell. He sighed patiently. "That's what they said at Saltash, more or less. I got a sister living there Sarah Treleaven her name is a widow-woman, and sells fish.
"Down by the river. . . . But 'tis nonsense you're tellin'. The Rectory indeed! Why, it's a seat!" Mr. Jope's face clouded. "Oh," he said, "is that all?" "It's a fine one, too." "It'd have to be, to accomydate Bill an' me an' the cask. I wanted a house, as I thought I told ye." "Oh, but I meant a country-seat," explained Miss Elizabeth. "The Rectory is a house." Again Mr. Jope's face brightened.
"Now look here," he said very quietly, as the poor wretch would have grovelled at the Parson's feet, "you was boastin' to Bill, not an hour agone, as you could stuff anything." "Don't hurt him," Parson Spettigew interposed, touching Mr. Jope's arm. "I'm not hurtin' him, your Reverence, only Eh? What's that?" All turned their faces towards the store.
A line of tattered flags, with no wind to stir them, led down from the truck of either mast, and as we drew near I called Mr. Jope's attention to an immense bunch of foxgloves and pink valerian on her bowsprit end. "Looks like a wedding, don't it?" said he; and turning up his clean white trousers he strolled down to the water's edge for a closer look. "Scandalous," he added, examining her timbers.
"It's this-a-way," he said, addressing the Parson. "Eli Tonkin his name is, or was; and, as he said, of this parish." "Tonkin?" queried the Parson. "There are no Tonkins surviving in Botusfleming parish. The last of them was a poor old widow I laid to rest the week after Christmas." "Belay there! . . . Dead, is she?" Mr. Jope's face exhibited the liveliest disappointment.
Bill began to admire it, and it turned out the barber had stuffed the thing. Maybe your Reverence knows the man? 'A. Grigg and Son, he calls hisself." "Grigg? Yes, to be sure: he stuffed a trout for me last summer." "What weight, makin' so bold?" "Seven pounds." Mr. Jope's face fell again. "Well-a-well! I dare say the size don't matter, once you've got the knack.
The little barber drew near, and stood at Mr. Jope's elbow. His face wore an unhealthy pallor, and he smelt potently of strong drink. "Brandy it is," apologised Mr. Jope, observing a slight contraction of the Parson's nostril. "I reckoned 'twould tauten him a bit for what's ahead. . . . Well, as I was sayin', it happened very curiously.
Word Of The Day