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Updated: June 25, 2025
Lawrence has become a country of awful and mysterious associations, while the more knowing members of the community which David honors with his presence are firmly convinced that there never existed such a boat as the Mayeta save in the wild imagination of David Bodfish. Mr. Bodfish's fictitious adventures, as related by him, covered many thousand miles of canoe voyaging.
Bodfish; don't be alarmed." "Very good," said the farmer, who found his injured relative's gaze somewhat trying. "I'll go, and leave him to explain to Mrs. Driver why he was hidden in her larder. It don't seem a proper thing to me." "Why, you silly man," said Mrs. Clowes, gleefully, as she paused at the door, "that don't want any explanation. Now, Mr. Bodfish, we're giving you your chance.
Negget, eagerly. It was an odd place for an ex-policeman, especially as a small legacy added to his pension had considerably improved his social position, but Mr. Bodfish had himself suggested it in the professional hope that the person who had taken Mrs. Negget's gold brooch might try for further loot. He had, indeed, suggested baiting the dressing-table with the farmer's watch, an idea which Mr.
When I joined my travelling companion, David Bodfish, he grievously inveighed against the community of Whitehall because some dishonest boatmen from the canal had appropriated the stock of pipes and tobacco he had laid in for his three or four days' voyage to Albany.
Bodfish looked from one to the other. "But you always keep yours on, Lizzie, don't you?" he asked. "Yes, of course," replied his niece, hurriedly; "but George has always got such strange ideas. Don't take no notice of him."
Negget smashed on the floor, and the farmer himself, with every appearance of astonishment, stared at the apparition open-mouthed. "Mr. Bodfish!" he said at length, slowly. Mr. Bodfish, incapable of speech, glared at him ferociously. "Leave him alone," said Mrs. Clowes, who was ministering to her friend. "Can't you see the man's upset at frightening her? She's coming round, Mr.
Bodfish wrung his hands, and his thoughts reverted instinctively to instances in his memory in which charges of murder had been altered by the direction of a sensible judge to manslaughter. He held his breath for the next words. Mr. Negget drank a little more ale and looked at Mrs. Driver. "I wonder whether you've got a morsel of bread and cheese?" he said, slowly. "I've come over that hungry "
Negget, and with brazen effrontery not only met his wife's eye without quailing, but actually glanced down at her boots. Mr. Bodfish came back to his chair and ruminated. Then he looked up and spoke. "It was missed this morning at ten minutes past twelve," he said, slowly; "it was there last night. At eleven o'clock you came in and found Mrs. Driver sitting in that chair."
Bodfish wrung his hands, and his thoughts reverted instinctively to instances in his memory in which charges of murder had been altered by the direction of a sensible judge to manslaughter. He held his breath for the next words. Mr. Negget drank a little more ale and looked at Mrs. Driver. "I wonder whether you've got a morsel of bread and cheese?" he said, slowly. "I've come over that hungry "
Driver here to my house to be got at," said the farmer. "O' course if you can find out who took the brooch, and get it back again anyway, that's another matter." Mr. Bodfish leaned over the table toward his niece. "If I get an opportunity, I'll search her cottage," he said, in a low voice.
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