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Updated: May 13, 2025
"Besides, it was agreed that we could do without one for the first year. Why suggest more expense?" "I don't mean an ordinary office-boy," explained Clodd. "I mean the sort of boy that I rode with in the train going down to Stratford yesterday." "What was there remarkable about him?" "Nothing. He was reading the current number of the Penny Novelist. Over two hundred thousand people buy it.
"Anyhow," remarked Mr. Gladman, licking his lips, which were dry, "you won't get anything, Mr. Clodd no, not even your three-hundred pounds, clever as you think yourself. My brother-in-law's money will go to the lawyers." Then Mr. Pincer rose and spoke slowly and clearly.
"If you had to sit in the room while she was practising mixed scales, you'd be quickly undeceived," said the editor of Good Humour, one Peter Hope. He spoke bitterly. "You are not always in," explained Clodd. "There must be hours when she is here alone, with nothing else to do. Besides, you will get used to it after a while." "You, I notice, don't try to get used to it," snarled Peter Hope.
"Once get in to see the old fellow and put the actual figures before him, he would clamour to come in." "Won't he see Clodd?" asked the Babe. "Won't see anybody on behalf of anything new just at present, apparently," answered Miss Ramsbotham. "It was my fault. I was foolish enough to repeat that I had heard he was susceptible to female charm. They say it was Mrs.
"You always go out the moment she commences." "A friend of mine," continued William Clodd, "worked in an office over a piano-shop for seven years, and when the shop closed, it nearly ruined his business; couldn't settle down to work for want of it." "Why doesn't he come here?" asked Peter Hope. "The floor above is vacant." "Can't," explained William Clodd. "He's dead."
Clodd had no eye for moon or stars or such-like; always he had things more important to think of. "Seen the old 'umbug?" asked Mrs. Postwhistle, who was partial to the air, leading the way into the parlour. "First and foremost commenced," Mr. Clodd, as he laid aside his hat, "it is quite understood that you really do want to get rid of him? What's that?" demanded Mr.
William Clodd?" demanded the decided voice. Clodd started and closed the door. "Guessed it in once," admitted Mr. Clodd. "I thought so," said the decided voice. "We got your note this afternoon. Mr. Hope will be back at eight. Will you kindly hang up your hat and coat in the hall? You will find a box of cigars on the mantelpiece. Excuse my being busy. I must finish this, then I'll talk to you."
Meanwhile, if I were you, I should spread a mattress underneath that perch of his before I went to bed. I should like him handed over to me in reasonable repair." "It will deaden the sound a bit, any'ow," agreed Mrs. Postwhistle. "Success to temperance," drank Mr. Clodd, and rose to go. "I take it you've fixed things up all right for yourself," said Mrs.
Forgive me, I knew your father my dear," laughed Clodd; "when he was younger." They lit their cigars and talked. "Well, not exactly dead; we amalgamated it," winked Clodd in answer to Danvers' inquiry. "It was just a trifle too high-class. Besides, the old gentleman was not getting younger. It hurt him a little at first.
Edward Clodd, The Childhood of Religions: Embracing a Simple Account of the Birth and Growth of Myths and Legends, p. 76-77. Kingsley's Heroes, preface, p. xv. Once upon a time there lived a king and a queen, who had three beautiful daughters.
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