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Updated: May 4, 2025
There is, I admit, a spice of vulgarity in him, and his song is rather of the Bloomfield sort, too largely ballasted with prose. His ethics are of the Poor Richard school, and the main chance which calls forth all his energy is altogether of the belly. He never has these fine intervals of lunacy into which his cousins, the catbird and the mavis, are apt to fall.
Bloomfield read the note. "Did you go and see the boat-boy?" he asked. "Yes; and all I could get out of him was that some one had got into the boat-house that night, and scrambled out of the window just in time to avoid being seen. But the fellow, whoever he was, dropped a knife, which I managed to get from Tom, and which turned out to be one young Wyndham had lost." "Young Wyndham!
I trust you will persuade Sir George Templemore to be of our party, and at four we shall be ready to accompany you; until then I am contracted to a gossip with Mrs. Bloomfield in her dressing-room." We shall now leave the party on the land, and follow those who have already taken boat, or the fishermen.
Master Tom Bloomfield was a well-grown boy of seven, with a somewhat wiry frame, flaxen hair, blue eyes, small turned-up nose, and fair complexion. Mary Ann was a tall girl too, somewhat dark like her mother, but with a round full face and a high colour in her cheeks. The second sister was Fanny, a very pretty little girl; Mrs.
Shoemakers have given us Sir Cloudesley Shovel the great admiral, Sturgeon the electrician, Samuel Drew the essayist, Gifford the editor of the Quarterly Review, Bloomfield the poet, and William Carey the missionary; whilst Morrison, another laborious missionary, was a maker of shoe-lasts.
He was a yard or two ahead, then Wyndham, and the London man lying out, ten yards behind. He had been going pretty easily, but he lammed it on for the next hurdle, and pulled up close. The three went over almost even, and then Bloomfield was out of it. My eye, Cusack! you should have seen the finish after that!
Parson skulks off to rouse Game, knowing perfectly well that Bloomfield will be sound asleep again before he is out of the door, which turns out to be the case. After super-human efforts to extract from Game an assurance that he's getting up that moment, and Parson needn't wait, the luckless fag returns to find his master snoring like one of the seven sleepers. The same process has to be repeated.
"So far from entertaining resentment, I am grateful for your concern, especially as I know it was manifested cautiously, and without any unpleasant allusions to third persons." "In that respect I believe I did pretty well. Tom Bloomfield I beg his pardon, Captain Bloomfield, for so he calls himself, at present knows Mr.
"You're our captain; we'll obey you!" said Pringle, with a withering look at Riddell. "What's that you said just now?" demanded Bloomfield. "I only said, `Kick him out!" said Lawkins, somewhat doubtfully, as he noticed the black looks on the Parrett's captain's face. Bloomfield made a grab at the two luckless youths, and shook them very much as a big dog shakes her refractory puppies.
"Oh, yes. Lives in Bloomfield, doesn't he?" "He did. Works here in town now out at Bromley's." He made no further reply, but somehow she felt an unuttered conviction, on the part of the man there beside her, of Joe's loss of heritage. And yet a certain compunction prevented her from making any explanation that it was not Joe's fault. There was a sort of sacred inviolability about it.
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