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Updated: May 18, 2025
"Hullo, how's the giant mushroom, or whatever it was?" was all the notice Blenkinthrope got from his fellow travellers. Young Duckby, whom he mildly disliked, speedily monopolised the general attention by an account of a domestic bereavement. "Had four young pigeons carried off last night by a whacking big rat.
You'd find it rather hard to match that in the way of unlooked-for bad luck." "I had six pullets out of a pen of seven killed by a snake yesterday afternoon," said Blenkinthrope, in a voice which he hardly recognised as his own. "By a snake?" came in excited chorus. "It fascinated them with its deadly, glittering eyes, one after the other, and struck them down while they stood helpless.
"Thank you," said Blenkinthrope stiffly; "it's a very clever invention. If such a thing had really happened in my poultry-run I admit I should have been proud and interested to tell people about it. But I'd rather stick to fact, even if it is plain fact." All the same his mind dwelt wistfully on the story of the Seventh Pullet.
With this new human interest to absorb them the travelling companions were almost rude when Blenkinthrope tried to explain his contrivance for keeping vipers and peregrine falcons out of his chicken-run. Gorworth, to whom he unburdened himself in private, gave him the same counsel as heretofore. "Invent something." "Yes, but what?"
No effort was spared to draw him out from day to day in the exercise of testing their powers of credulity, and Blenkinthrope, in the false security of an assured and receptive audience, waxed industrious and ingenious in supplying the demand for marvels.
A bedridden neighbour, who wasn't able to call for assistance, witnessed it all from her bedroom window." "Well, I never!" broke in the chorus, with variations. "The interesting part of it is about the seventh pullet, the one that didn't get killed," resumed Blenkinthrope, slowly lighting a cigarette.
Nothing of interest comes my way, nothing remarkable or out of the common. Even the little things that I do try to find some interest in don't seem to interest other people. Things in my garden, for instance." "The potato that weighed just over two pounds," said his friend Gorworth. "Did I tell you about that?" said Blenkinthrope; "I was telling the others in the train this morning.
Doctor says entire hand may have to come off. Now that is conversation of a very high order. But imagine walking into a tennis club with the remark: 'I know a man who has grown a potato weighing two and a quarter pounds." "But hang it all, my dear fellow," said Blenkinthrope impatiently, "haven't I just told you that nothing of a remarkable nature ever happens to me?"
Returning to his villa one evening Blenkinthrope found his wife sitting in front of a pack of cards, which she was scrutinising with unusual concentration. "The same old patience-game?" he asked carelessly. "No, dear; this is the Death's Head patience, the most difficult of them all. I've never got it to work out, and somehow I should be rather frightened if I did.
Tell them something startling, dramatic, piquant that has happened to yourself or to someone in your family, and you will capture their interest at once. They will talk about you with a certain personal pride to all their acquaintances. 'Man I know intimately, fellow called Blenkinthrope, lives down my way, had two of his fingers clawed clean off by a lobster he was carrying home to supper.
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