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Updated: May 6, 2025
No. 22 Machin Street, Hanbridge, was next door to Bostock's vast emporium, and exactly opposite the more exclusive, but still mighty, establishment of Ephraim Brunt, the greatest draper in the Five Towns. It was, therefore, in the very heart and centre of retail commerce. No woman who respected herself could buy even a sheet of pins without going past No. 22 Machin Street.
Stephen was lounging over the dining-room fire, perhaps dozing. She would have the thing swiftly transported up-stairs and hidden in an attic for a time. But just then Stephen popped out of the dining-room. Stephen's masculine curiosity had been aroused by the advent of Bostock's van. He had observed the incoming of the package from the window, and he had ventured to the hall to inspect it.
"Ay, ay!" came in half-smothered tones, and this was followed by the sound of someone turning out of a bunk. The next minute Bostock's bloodstained face appeared, with a tremendous swelling on the brow, the result evidently of a blow given with marlin-spike or club. "Bob!" cried Carey, wildly, as he caught the old sailor's hand. "Master Carey!" cried the injured man, stumbling out as if giddy.
Carey followed him, and leaned down before he reached the top of the ladder for the guns, which he took from Bostock's hands and passed up to the doctor. The satchels and bucket of treasures they had found followed, and then Carey finished his ascent to the lofty deck. "Look sharp, Bob," he said, "and let's have some supper at once."
Ten minutes later the doctor was sitting with his back to the door, and in spite of all that had gone by and the belief that he could not sleep a wink in the midst of the peril, Carey dropped off fast, and Bostock's loud breathing told that he had followed suit, while the three blacks squatted there hour after hour, watching their master and tyrant like so many faithful hounds.
Considering that the parcel which she had given to Penkethman to put in the music-stool comprised a half-a-pound of Bostock's very ripest Gorgonzola cheese, bought at the cook's special request, the smell which proceeded from the mysterious inwards of the packing-case did not surprise Vera at all. But it disconcerted her none the less. And she wondered how she could get the cheese out.
A quarter of a century ago, or a little more, an instructor would not have hesitated to put John Bell's "Anatomy" and Bostock's "Physiology" into a student's hands, as good authority on their respective subjects. Let us not be unjust to either of these authors. John Bell is the liveliest medical writer that I can remember who has written since the days of delightful old Ambroise Pare.
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