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Updated: May 13, 2025
"You said yourself a lady advertising-agent would be a good idea," the sub-editor reminded him. "So she might be," returned Clodd; "but she isn't going to be you." "Why not?" "Because she isn't, that's why." "But if " "See you at the printer's at twelve," said Clodd to Peter, and went out suddenly. "Well, I think he's an idiot," said the sub-editor.
He advised me to try and get Landor's. He thought that if I could get an advertisement out of Landor, he might persuade his people to give us theirs." "And if you had gone to Landor, he would have promised you theirs provided you got Kingsley's." "They will come," thought hopeful Peter. "We are going up steadily. They will come with a rush." "They had better come soon," thought Clodd.
"I ought to have known of this," began Mr. Gladman. "Glad to find you taking so much interest in the old chap," said Clodd. "Pity he's dead and can't thank you." "I warn you," shouted old Gladman, whose voice was rising to a scream, "he was a helpless imbecile, incapable of acting for himself! If any undue influence " "See you on Friday," broke in Clodd, who was busy.
"Besides, there's the will to be read. You may care to hear it." The dry old law stationer opened wide his watery eyes. "His will! Why, what had he got to leave? There was nothing but the annuity." "You turn up at the funeral," Clodd told him, "and you'll learn all about it. Bonner's clerk will be there and will bring it with him. Everything is going to be done comme il faut, as the French say."
Two noble punch-bowls graced the table, and a number of long "churchwarden" pipes supported the large brass coffer filled with tobacco, which opened only by some cunning mechanism, set in motion by dropping a halfpenny in a slit at the top. Mr. Binks was in the chair; Clodd, the butcher, sat opposite; a great fragrance of spice and lemon-peel pervaded the place.
Clodd found it on the mantelpiece concealed beneath the hollow foot of a big brass candlestick, and handed it to Peter. Peter had one vice the taking in increasing quantities of snuff, which was harmful for him, as he himself admitted. Tommy, sympathetic to most masculine frailties, was severe, however, upon this one. "You spill it upon your shirt and on your coat," had argued Tommy.
Clodd and Bonner's clerk, at Clodd's expense. The residue worked out at eleven hundred and sixty-nine pounds and a few shillings. Postwhistle, of Rolls Court, of ten, presented by the promoter; Mr. Postwhistle's first floor front, of one, paid for by poem published in the first number: "The Song of the Pen." Choosing a title for the paper cost much thought.
Edward Clodd, after tracing the fundamental ideas of religion to primitive delusion, says: A personal life and will controlled them. This was obviously brought home to him more forcibly in the actions of living things, since these so closely resembled his own that he saw no difference between themselves and him.
"I should be so glad to think that the dear lady was happy." "So should I," added Miss Fossett drily. "One of the most sensible women I have ever met," commented William Clodd. "Lucky man, whoever he is. Half wish I'd thought of it myself." "I am not saying that he isn't," retorted Miss Fossett. "It isn't him I'm worrying about." "I preesume you mean 'he," suggested the Wee Laddie.
"Come in," said a decided voice, which was not Peter Hope's. Mr. William Clodd's ambition was, and always had been, to be the owner or part-owner of a paper. To-day, as I have said, he owns a quarter of a hundred, and is in negotiation, so rumour goes, for seven more. But twenty years ago "Clodd and Co., Limited," was but in embryo.
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