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Updated: June 7, 2025
There should be one, I know. Master Dryden says so, and he knows all about Virgil." "Poof," said I. "If old Bloggs heard you, he'd tingle to thrash you black and blue." "He couldn't now I've got my breath again," she laughed. "I'm glad of that. Let me explain. Here is a ladder of notches in the wall, left and right alternately. Feel for them."
"And no doubt you know by heart the merry gests of Robin Hood and the admirable exploits of Claude Duval?" I felt her eyes on me in the dark, and longed for the sun so that I could see the blue glint in them. "No such rubbish, indeed," said I hotly. It was a slight on Master Bloggs, droning away yonder at the fall of Troy, not to say the sweet old vicar. "What then?"
In the little back room I whispered, "My old school and schoolmaster. We will not disturb the old man. Poor little Marry-me-quick may have to suffer on our account, and old Bloggs shall at any rate have the excuse of knowing nothing about us. He's happy enough over the fall of Troy. Nothing that he can do can help us. Let him be." She nodded assent and I looked round.
It is a strange fact that, while I could respect the solid virtues of the aspirateless Misses Higgs, Bloggs or Muggins, I could never have married one of them; yet, while I knew Dolores to be a heartless flirt, and more than suspected her to be of most unrigid principle, I was infatuated with her dark beauty, her grace, her wiles and witchery and asked her to become my wife.
"Old Bloggs taught you the silly rigmarole you men call logic, but he didn't teach you woman's logic, that's plain. Don't you see what I've made you do, Master Wheatman?" "Not yet, Mistress Waynflete." "Poof, slow-coach! I've made you admit that you were going to say 'cross' but altered it, too late, to 'grave." "You outrun me with your nimble and practised wit," said I, smiling.
I had no need to envy him now, having better work on hand than his, but even if the mood of the midday had been prevailing, it would have disappeared before his hearty greeting. "Noll, by gad, Noll," he cried, wringing my hand joyously. "I am glad to see you, bully-boy; I thought you were sulking in your tent like like, you know his name, the fellow old Bloggs was always yarning about."
"I was not praising you, madam," I retorted, quick as ever to return like for like. "I was thanking you, and I venture, with respect, to thank you again." "Bother old Bloggs!" she said, suddenly all of a glow. "Bloggs? Who's Bloggs?" asked the Colonel, plainly enjoying the fun. "A rascally schoolmaster," she explained, "who flogged Oliver into a precision of speech which I find most trying.
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