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It stretched away, like a cloud, vague and indeterminate to the horizon. To their left a dark brown field rose in an ascending wave to a ridge that cut the sky, now crocus-coloured. The field was lit with the soft light of the setting sun. On the ridge of the field something, suspended, it seemed, in midair, was shining like a golden fire. "What's that?" said Mr. Pidgen again. "It's hanging.
Pidgen an innings of two hundred not out and make him captain of Kent. He now observed the vision very carefully and discovered several strange items in his general behaviour. Mr. Of course this amazed Mr. Lasher. He would quite suddenly stop, stand like a top spinning, balanced on his toes, and cry, "Ah! Now I've got it! No, I haven't! Yes, I have. By God, it's gone again!" To this also Mr.
He suddenly added in a sharp little voice like the report from a pistol: "So one can't be lonely or anything, can one, if there's always some one about?" Mr. Pidgen was greatly touched. He put his hand upon Hugh's shoulder. "My dear boy," he said, "my dear boy dear me, dear me. I'm afraid you're going to have a dreadful time when you grow up. I really mustn't encourage you.
Lasher then explained that playing golf made one thin, hungry and self-restrained. Mr. Pidgen said that he did not wish to be the first or last of these, and that he was always the second, and that golf was turning the fair places of England into troughs for the moneyed pigs of the Stock Exchange to swill in. "My dear Pidgen!" cried Mr.
Fancy talking all the afternoon! Well!" No one had noticed Hugh. He, however, had understood Mr. Pidgen better than Mr. Lasher did. This conversation aroused in Hugh, for various reasons, the greatest possible excitement. He would have liked to have asked Mr. Pidgen many questions.
Lasher's satisfaction, of having a collar at the end of the week as clean as it had been at the beginning, of discovering the way to make a straight parting in the hair, of not wriggling in bed when Mrs. Lasher kissed him at night, of many, many other things. He was at this time a very lonely boy. Until Mr. Pidgen paid his visit he was most remarkably lonely.
He was like one of the china ornaments in Mrs. Lasher's drawing-room that the housemaid is told to be so careful about, and concerning whose destruction Hugh heard her on at least one occasion declaring, in a voice half tears, half defiance, "Please, ma'am, it wasn't me. It just slipped of itself!" Mr. Pidgen would break very completely were he dropped.
They spoke for the first time at the mid-day meal, when Mr. Lasher said, "More Yorkshire pudding, Pidgen?" and Mr. Pidgen said, "I adore it." Now Yorkshire pudding happened to be one of Hugh's special passions just then, particularly when it was very brown and crinkly, so he said quite spontaneously and without taking thought, as he was always told to do, "So do I!" "My dear Hugh!" said Mrs.
Lasher pulled furiously at his pipe and Mr. Pidgen stood up by the fire with his short fat legs spread wide and his mouth smiling, but his eyes vexed and rather indignant. "My dear Pidgen," said Mr. Lasher, "you misunderstand me, you do indeed! I don't believe that dreaming ever did any good to any man!" "It's only produced some of the finest literature the world has ever known," said Mr. Pidgen.
He stayed with you a bit when you just arrived, but I expect he soon left you. You're jolly glad he did." "My dear Pidgen," said Mr. Lasher, "I haven't understood a word." Pidgen shook his head. "You're right. That's just what's the matter with me. I can't even put what I see plainly." He sighed deeply. "I've failed. There's no doubt about it. But, although I know that, I've had a happy life.
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