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Updated: May 29, 2025
"Have it your way," assented Brock with ironic mildness. "Now, Chappy, follow me a minute and you'll see how you dished your own beans: You call up Worth 10,000 that's a private matter, as you say. But Central gets the call twisted and gives you another number that's a mistake.
Come on. The young lady over yonder will tell me if you don't. Was it Worth 10,000?" "Yes," said Marr, "it was." "I thought so," said Brock. "I guessed as much. But say Chappy, that's the trunk number of the Herald. Before this you never were the one to try to break into the newspapers on your own hook. What did you want with that number?" "That's my business," said Marr.
It is said that the appearance and powers of the sisters are not those of witches. 90. It is going to be shown that they are. 91. A third piece of criticism. 92. Objections. 93. Contemporary descriptions of witches. Scot, Harsnet. Witches' beards. 94. Have Norns chappy fingers, skinny lips, and beards? 95. Powers of witches "looking into the seeds of time."
Never again did Doe or I see him, though we heard of his doings. God speed to him, our cocksure Pennybet. Let us always think the best of him. No sooner had the door clicked than Chappy exploded. "That high youth ought to have his trousers taken down and be birched. What are we coming to, when boys like him lecture their elders on how to run the world?"
At least in the long-run it amounted to that, and Rickman had some difficulty in persuading Spinks that his scheme, though in the last degree glorious and romantic, was, from an ethical point of view, not strictly feasible. "What a rum joker you are, Rickman. I never thought of that. "I wonder who'll put you to bed, old chappy, when you're tight." "Don't fret, Spinky.
One afternoon, a jolly-looking little chap, one of the Wisconsin boys, and one after my own heart and he proved it, too, by trating me to several drinks came along with a Rebel Artillery officer's coat under his arm. And we looked at the coat, and talked and drank, and drank and talked, until the Wisconsin chappy put it on, just to show me how the Rebel officer looked in it.
"That's all right, Chappy," said Brock soothingly, rocking his short plump figure on his heels; "there won't be any rough stuff. I've got a cop off the corner who's waiting outside if I should need him in case of a jam but I guess we won't need him, will we? You'll go along with me nice and friendly in a taxicab, won't you?" He flirted his thumb over his shoulder.
"All right, don't you worry, old chappy," said Poppy soothingly. "You come here and sit quiet." He came and sat down beside her, as if the evening had only just begun. He sat down carefully, tenderly, lest he should crush so much as the hem of her fan-like, diaphanous skirts. And then he began to talk to her.
"I wouldn't have thought he had so much in him." "Oughtn't we to undo his collar?" Then the remarks evaporated into nonsense, but only for a space, after which the nonsense solidified into sentences again. "Don't you think we ought to send for Chappy?" "Wait and see if he'll come round. His colour's returning."
"I guess you are!" said a voice right in his ear; "and you're due to be worse, Chappy, old boy much worse!" The smile slipped. He turned his head and looked into the complacent, chubby face and the pleased eyes of M. J. Brock, head of Brock's Detective Agency the man of all men in this world he wished least to see. For once, anyhow, in his life Marr was shaken, and showed it.
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