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The censors who lived with us and traveled with us and were our friends, and read what we wrote before the ink was dry, had to examine our screeds with microscopic eyes and with infinite remembrance of the thousand and one rules. Was it safe to mention the weather? Would that give any information to the enemy?
Gus gave Jim some good advice about the schools, which made Jim feel a bit dubious. "Chuck your Bohn's cribs and your keys under the grate, and show up your own work." "Footle, you mean, Gus." "All right, footle, then. I know all our own private personal beaks would rather have a fellow's own work, if of fair quality, than all the weirdest screeds from any crib whatsoever."
But each had a daftness in the eye and something weak and unwholesome in the visage, so that they were an offence to the fresh, gusty moorland. All but Muckle John himself. He came out of his tent and prayed till the hill-sides echoed. It was a tangle of bedlamite ravings, with long screeds from the Scriptures intermixed like currants in a bag-pudding.
For a time I wrote literary screeds for the Golden Era. C. H. Webb had established a very excellent literary weekly called the Californian, but high merit was no guaranty of success; it languished, and he sold out to three printers, and Bret Harte became editor at $20 a week, and I was employed to contribute an article a week at $12.
We mustn't lose touch, you see. You needn't write long screeds. I only want to know your whereabouts from time to time. For the rest you can spin it out in yarns when you come back." Nothing worthy of particular note occurred during the boat-voyage along the northern shore of Java to Sunda Straits.
He made immediately some preliminary preparations. After careful soundings made upon the floor of his room, he introduced a lead pipe which penetrated the ceiling of Mon. Imbert's office at a point between the two screeds of the cornice. By means of this pipe, he hoped to see and hear what transpired in the room below. Henceforth, he passed his days stretched at full length upon the floor.
This last communication proved a puzzling one. "You there?" "I am Lady Hannah Wrynche. Where are you?" There was a brief hesitation. A thickish man's voice said: "I don't know as that matters." "Who are you?" There was another hesitation. Then the stranger parried with a question: "You write them weekly screeds in the Siege Gazette?" "I am responsible for some of the social paragraphs.
The third, or lower, inscription, is manifestly Greek, obviously a thing of words. If the screeds above be also made of words, only the elect have any way of proving the fact.
For a time I wrote literary screeds for the Golden Era. C. H. Webb had established a very excellent literary weekly called the Californian, but high merit was no guaranty of success; it languished, and he sold out to three printers, and Bret Harte became editor at $20 a week, and I was employed to contribute an article a week at $12.
'Now God be praised, the printer cried out, and caught at the boy's wrist. 'Tell your tale! and he shook him on his legs. 'Me, too, Privy Seal had taken but I 'scaped free, he gasped. 'These twain had promised me advancement for braving their screeds. And I ha' lost it. 'Gossips all, the Neighbour Ned barked out, 'to your feet and let us sing: "A fortress fast is God the Lord."
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