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Updated: May 24, 2025
"Just in time to see whether I'm right in my guess about the illness of Brixton," he remarked, scarcely looking up at me. He had taken a flask with a rubber stopper. Through one hole in it was fitted a long funnel; through another ran a glass tube, connecting with a large U-shaped drying-tube filled with calcium chloride, which in turn connected with a long open tube with an up-turned end.
Tom checked himself, as if with a great effort. The girl longed to hear more, but he did not finish the sentence. "Well," he said, with a forced air of gaiety, "I have sought you here to tell you that I am going off on on a long hunting expedition. Going at once but I would not leave without bidding you good-bye." "Going away, Mr Brixton!" exclaimed Betty, in genuine surprise. "Yes.
Perhaps that is why we are so subtly influenced by it. There are vague memories in our souls of those misty centuries when the world was in its childhood." "That's rather a broad idea," I remarked. "One's ideas must be as broad as Nature if they are to interpret Nature," he answered. "What's the matter? You're not looking quite yourself. This Brixton Road affair has upset you."
Not that I likes the man much. There was a girl I knew she wouldn't hear his name mentioned. But he lays fair prices, and does, I believe, a big trade." "'As a nice 'ome at Brixton, keeps a trap; his wife as pretty a woman as you could wish to lay eyes on. I've seen her with him at Kempton." "You was up there this morning?" "Yes." "It wasn't Bob Barrett that gave you the tip?" "Not likely."
Even the robber-chief was remembered among the rest, and you may be very sure that Tom Brixton was not forgotten. Having slept the sleep of innocence and purity, Betty rose refreshed on the following day, and, before the Indian village was astir, went out to ramble along a favourite walk in a thicket on the mountain-side.
When the story began to appear in "Scribner's Magazine" it seemed full of vivacity and promise. The opening scenes in the Pacific were like Paradise, as the author said, to dwellers in Brixton, or other purlieus of London. The financial school at which Loudon Dodd was educated in Stock Exchange flutters was rather less convincing than any dream of Paradise, but none the less amusing.
Foyle took the chair, and the buzz of conversation became general. It was a business conference of experts. Views were exchanged on concrete problems; the movements of well-known criminals discussed. "Velvet-fingered Ned" had disappeared from Islington and reappeared in Brixton. "Tony" Smith was due out of prison. Mike O'Brien had patched up the peace with "Yid" Foster, and when they got together
She is in a shop Brown and Evans, drapers, of Brixton; and she is not here to-day because Thursday is the early-closing day for the shops, and this is only Tuesday!" There was a short silence.
My father was a small tradesman in Brixton. When I was sixteen I had to make my own living. I used to draw in the illustrated papers. I began by making two pounds a week. Then, as I got on, I used to live as much as possible in the country. You can't paint landscapes in London. 'You must have had a hard time. 'I suppose I had. It was all right as long as I kept to my newspaper work.
We were capable of the most incongruous transfers from the scroll of history to our own times, we could suppose Brixton ravaged and Hampstead burnt in civil wars for the succession to the throne, or Cheapside a lane of death and the front of the Mansion House set about with guillotines in the course of an accurately transposed French Revolution.
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