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Updated: June 22, 2025
"Something rotten in the state of Denmark, there," says the master, Sir Guy Chetwoode, turning to Dorian Branscombe. "Surely, eh? Rather a safe thing for that pretty girl of Blount's to have given him the go-by, eh?" "Wouldn't have him at any price if I were a girl," says Branscombe. "I don't like his eyes. Murderous sort of beggar."
"Perhaps, Railsford " began the doctor, when his visitor broke in, "Railsford! Is this Railsford? Why, to be sure, now I look at you. How ungrateful you must have thought me! but you slipped away so suddenly that day when Mrs Branscombe and I arrived, that in our excitement and anxiety we scarcely had time to look at you; much less to thank you.
If you don't do it in 4.48 you deserve to be sent home to the nursery. But do you see Branscombe gave up before the end? That's odd. I rather thought he was the better man of the two." "Branscombe seems to be down on his luck altogether this term," said Ainger. "I fancy he hasn't a very sweet time at Bickers's." "But he ought to have won the mile, for all that.
In my rough old travel-stained clothes and tweed hat I might have passed for a Branscombe villager, but I did no hoeing and digging in one of the cultivated patches; and when I deliberately sat down on a rock to watch them, they noticed it and became suspicious; and as time went on and I still remained immovable, with my eyes fixed on them, the suspicion and anxiety increased and turned to fear; and those that were sitting on their nests got up and came close to the edge of the rock, to gaze with the others and join in the loud chorus of alarm.
It was Smedley's report of the School sports held the Saturday before, and was sufficiently alarming to dishearten any ordinary reader. "`The Mile Race. Smedley 1, Branscombe 2. Time 4 minutes 50 seconds. Whew!" said Ainger, "I can't beat that; 4.52 is the shortest I've done it in, and I doubt if I could do that again." "Fiddlesticks!
When daylight faded the village was very dark no lamp for the visitors and very silent, only the low murmur of the sea on the shingle was audible, and the gurgling sound of a swift streamlet flowing from the hill above and hurrying through the village to mingle with the Branscombe lower down in the meadows.
Again at Cape Town, while dining out one day, I was taken with the song of a cricket, and Mr. Branscombe, my host, volunteered to capture a pair of them for me. They were sent on board next day in a box labeled, "Pluto and Scamp." Stowing them away in the binnacle in their own snug box, I left them there without food till I got to sea a few days. I had never heard of a cricket eating anything.
Both the seniors had been fretting all the afternoon with a sense of something gone wrong at Grandcourt, the former with just a little indignation that he, the captain of the school, should be kept in the dark, along with everybody else, on the subject. "I ought to work," said Branscombe; "you go and tell me what's up." "Why, I thought you were as anxious as anyone to know?"
On his low narrow camp bed lay Branscombe, flushed, with eyes closed, tossing and moaning, and now and then talking to himself, Railsford started as his eyes fell on him. "He's ill!" he whispered to Mrs Phillips. "That's what I thought," observed the sagacious dame. Railsford knew little enough about medicine, and had never been ill himself in his life.
"You were rather poorly yesterday, old fellow," said Railsford, "and you must keep very quiet now, and not talk." The patient evinced no desire to disobey either of these injunctions, and composed himself once more to sleep. Before he awoke, a cab had driven into the courtyard and set down three passengers. Two of them were Mr and Mrs Branscombe, the third was a trained nurse from London.
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