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Updated: June 19, 2025
He walked to the end of the platform, and then back to the bookstall. "Has that new book of Buel's come out yet?" he asked the clerk in an unconcerned tone. "Yes, sir. Here it is; three and sixpence, sir." "Thank you," said Buel, putting his hand in his pocket for the money. "How is it selling?" "Well, sir, there won't be much call for it, not likely, till the reviews begin to come out."
It was doubtless the effect of the champagne, for Buel went back to his squalid room with his mind in the clouds. He wondered if this condition was the first indication of the swelled head Brant had talked about. Buel worked harder than ever at his proofs, and there was some growling at head-quarters because of the numerous corrections he made.
"Well, Doctor, you kinder wonder I forgot Hetty Buel. I didn't forget her, but I knew she wa'n't to be had anyhow; I thought I was in for life; and Wailua was the prettiest little craft that ever you set eyes on, as straight as a spar, and as kindly as a Christian; and besides, I had to, or I'd have been killed, and broiled, and eaten, whether or no!
On the trunk Buel noticed the name in white letters "Hodden," and instantly there arose within him a hope that his companion was to be the celebrated novelist. This hope was strengthened when he saw on the portmanteau the letters "J.L.H.," which were the novelist's initials.
An hour later they came to the last hill, and as they were riding by it a sentry who had been stationed there presented himself to their view. "Hallo, Buel!" exclaimed Bob, recognizing in the sentry one of his own company boys, "you'll let us in, won't you?" "Well, I am beat!" replied the man. "Corporal, you're a brick. Three cheers for the 'Brindles'!"
As the Americans say, some people want the earth for L12 or L15, and we can't always give it to them. Ah, here is the ticket. It is just as I thought. Mr. Hodden is entitled merely to berth 160." The arrival of the ticket was quickly followed by the advent of Mr. Hodden himself. He still ignored Buel. "Your people in London," he said to the purser, "guaranteed me a room to myself.
This helped to pass away time, but afforded little profit; and on the 11th of June, 1859, I wrote to Major D. C. Buel, assistant adjutant-general, on duty in the War Department with Secretary of War Floyd, inquiring if there was a vacancy among the army paymasters, or any thing in his line that I could obtain.
Apparently no one was at home. Under this impression I knocked vehemently, by way of making sure; and a weak, cracked voice at length answered, "Come in!" There, by the window, perhaps the same where she sat so long before, crouched in an old chair covered with calico, her bent fingers striving with mechanical motion to knit a coarse stocking, sat old Mrs. Buel.
"Never, mind, we'll convert him on the way over." "I say, purser, if you sling a hammock from the ceiling and put up a cot on the floor you can put two more men in here. Why didn't you think of that?" "It's not too late yet. Why did you suggest it?" "Gentlemen," said Buel, "I have no desire to intrude, if it is against your wish." "Oh, that's all right. Never mind them. They have to talk or die.
There won't be any trouble. I know them." It was when Mr. Jessop departed that Buel suddenly became anxious to get rid of Brant. When he had succeeded, he walked over to where the girl leaned on the bulwark. "Well?" he said, taking his place beside her. "Well!" she answered, without looking up at him. "Which is it? Rich or poor?" "Rich, I should say, by the way the reporters flocked about you.
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