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I am willing to sell my talents and my labor for money. If I can once get in at Runn & Reed's, I am sure they will appreciate me, and consider it a lucky day on which they engaged me." "If you want me to go to the mayor's house with you, I will," said Katy, who did not clearly comprehend Simon's wishes. "Well, I think I will not go myself," replied Simon. "Why not?"
He has an idea that a man about to be married always cuts a ridiculous figure." The elder man looked puzzled. "No mysteries eh?" "None whatever, I believe. A decent girl without fortune, that's all. I suppose we shall see them before long." The subject was shortly dismissed, and Eustace fell to reporting the remarkable conversation in which he had taken part at the Mayor's table.
While he was thus occupied, a man entered with a good-humored, blustering air, and threw himself into a seat by the fire, carelessly shaking the Mayor's hand as he passed, as if quite certain of a good reception at all times. "Busy making out a new veto case, I dare say?" observed the visitor, glancing at the sheet of manuscript which his honor held.
That's the plain truth about his movements." "I don't think his movements matter," observed Brent. "What does matter is what were the movements of the murderer, and how did he get into the Mayor's Parlour? Or was he concealed there when my cousin entered and, if so, how did he get out and away?" "Ay, just so, Mr. Brent," agreed Hawthwaite. "As to that, we know nothing so far.
A problem such as you have given me to solve demands a thorough understanding of every cause capable of creating disturbance in a sensitive mind." The mayor's short laugh failed to hide his annoyance. "You will find nothing in this direction," said he, "to account for the condition I have mentioned to you. Mrs. Packard is utterly devoid of superstition.
Her easy, courteous manners became her wonderfully. I immediately recognized how much there was to admire in our mayor's wife, and quite understood his relief when, a few minutes later, we sat at table and conversation began. Mrs. Packard, when free and light-hearted, was a delightful companion and the meal passed off cheerily.
"I can't say that, but there's a poor, innocent young maid gone off with him, one Salterne's daughter." "Rose Salterne, the mayor's daughter, the Rose of Torridge?" "That's her. Bless your dear soul, what ails you?" Amyas had dropped back in his seat as if he had been shot; but he recovered himself, and next morning started for Bideford. The story was true.
A fuller picture of these simple, peaceful, and poetic Pornic days comes to us through Miss Blagden, August 18: . . . This is a wild little place in Brittany, something like that village where we stayed last year. Close to the sea a hamlet of a dozen houses, perfectly lonely one may walk on the edge of the low rocks by the sea for miles. Our house is the Mayor's, large enough, clean and bare.
Its principal duties consisted in devising new names for streets and regulating the hours of city-hall servants. There were no perquisites, no graft. In a spirit of ribald defiance at the organization of the present session all the mayor's friends the reformers those who could not be trusted had been relegated to this committee.
In two weeks he had induced sixty-three men to volunteer in defense of their country married men, fathers of families, prudent farmers and merchants of the town. These he drilled every morning in front of the mayor's window.
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