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Updated: June 2, 2025
"As a matter of fact, it's clear connection of thought in this case. Bagshaw's a clergyman, and my mind flew instantly to celestial things." She did not respond to this. "In any case, I really cannot see why you should object to Mr. Boom Bagshaw." "I don't. I don't in the least." "I've heard you say often that he's far and away the best preacher you've ever heard." "He is. Absolutely."
That is why everybody knew, when Bagshaw got off the afternoon train one day early in the spring, that there must be something very important coming and that the rumours about a new election must be perfectly true. Everything that he did showed this.
Next, lest it should happen, as it did once happen, for want of such preconcert, that a picnic party of ten found themselves at their place of meeting with ten fillets of veal and ten hams, Mr. Bagshaw called a committee of "provender."
Unfortunately the last Burtington batsman was more of a wag than a "sitter," he was the funny man of the team, and was so delighted with his own wit that Bagshaw said it would be a shame not to let him enjoy himself. "Every village team has its funny man," he said, "and we are jolly lucky to get him in last."
They've all got convictions and I believe I haven't any convictions. I've only got instincts and these convictions come down on instincts like a hammer on an egg." Mr. Boom Bagshaw was saying, "And we shall have no poor in the Garden Home. No ugly streets. No mean surroundings. Uplift. Everywhere uplift." There slipped out of Sabre aloud, "There you are. That's the kind of thing." Mr.
Bagshaw had become a member of one of the "march-of-intellect-societies," and was confident that the picnic would turn out a very pleasant thing. "How fortunate we shall be, dear," said Mr. Bagshaw, "how happy we shall be, if the weather should be as fine on our wedding-day as it is now." "True, love," replied Mrs.
Boom Bagshaw addressed to Mabel, and by her radiant responses his thought was, "I simply can't get on with this chap or with any of Mabel's crowd. They all make me feel like a kid. I can't answer them when they talk. They say things I've got ideas about but I never can explain my ideas to them. I never can argue my ideas with them.
And for the next quarter of an hour the place of the poor repeater was no sinecure. A knock! Mr. and Mrs. Snodgrass and Mr. Frederick. Another! The whole family of the Groutses. Next came Mr. Charles Wrench. "Bless us! Mr. Charles," said Bagshaw, "where is your father?" Now, Mr.
"There or anywhere else you please, sir," gravely replied the learned member of the universal-knowledge-warehouse. "Uncle John means in the open air, Claudius; that will be delightful." "Charming!" rejoined Bagshaw. It may be inquired why Uncle John, who objected to the disbursement of a guinea for a day's pleasure, should so readily have yielded at the suggestion of a picnic.
"Now this is enough to provoke a saint!" said Bagshaw; and no one attempting to deny the position, with this salvo for his own character of philosophic patience, he indulged himself in the full expression of his vexation and sorrow. After a minute examination, he declared the pie to be "a complete squash," and that nobody could venture to eat it but at the imminent risk of being choked.
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