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Updated: May 12, 2025
EXHAUSTED by the effort involved in keeping the thermometer of the closing day of August at an altitude intolerable to the human kind and irksome to the brute, a large, red-hot sun was languidly sinking beyond an extensive belt of dusky-brown elms fringing the western boundary of a seventy acre expanse of stubbles diagonally traversed by a parish right-of-way leading from the village of Bensley to the village of Dorton Ware.
I'd been thinking to myself, and had just worked it out. "What's he want to take his cook down with him for?" I says. "To cook for him," says the guv'nor. "What d'you generally want a cook for?" "Rats!" I says. "Does he usually take his cook with him?" "No," answered Miss Dorton. "Now I come to think of it, he has always hitherto put up with Mrs. Meadows."
I wasn't expecting them back soon, and they didn't come back soon. In the afternoon a motor stops at the gate, and out of it steps Miss Bulstrode, Miss Dorton that's the young lady that writes for him and Mr. Quincey. I told them I couldn't say when he'd be back, and they said it didn't matter, they just happening to be passing.
"On the other hand," he goes on he was working himself into a sort of fit "if the constable's head goes on swelling, and old Wotherspoon's liver gets worse, I've got to be prepared for a month without the option. That is, if I am fool enough " He had left both the doors open, which in the daytime we generally do, our chambers being at the top. Miss Dorton that's Mr.
"You will find the lady down at Fingest," I says, "sitting opposite him and enjoying a recherche dinner for two." The guv'nor slaps me on the back, and lifts Miss Dorton out of her chair. "You get on back," he says, "and telephone to Miss Bulstrode. I'll be round at half-past twelve."
"If only 'e 'ad lived " repeated the engineer in a strange far-away tone, "Oo's 'e?" he asked eagerly. "You know old Abey Turner as keeps the little sweet-an'-tobaccer shop over to Dorton Ware?" pursued the stoker. "Old Abey is a agint for the Popular Thrifty Life Insurance Company " "I know 'e is," confirmed the engineer.
Miss Dorton went out in a dazed sort of condition, and the guv'nor gives me a sovereign, and tells me I can have the rest of the day to myself. Mr. Condor, Junior, considers that what happened subsequently goes to prove that he was right more than it proves that he was wrong. Mr.
Parable said he was going to do himself, and which Miss Dorton said he mustn't, because, if he did, it would be a victory for the enemies of humanity. Mr. Parable said something about "humanity," which I didn't rightly hear, but, whatever it was, it started Miss Dorton crying; and Miss Bulstrode called Mr.
I heard a scuttling as I opened the door. If I am not mistaken, Miss Dorton was hiding in the corner where we keep the coke. I didn't see any good in making a fuss, so I left her there. When I got back to the kitchen, cook asked me if we'd got any parsley. "You'll find a bit in the front," I says, "to the left of the gate," and she went out. She came back looking scared.
A yellow glare in the east heralded the rising of the orb of day, as the figures of an aged man and a ragged boy moved from the shelter of the belt of elms that screened the village of Dorton Ware, and proceeded along the right-of-way. "It's burned, right enough, Billy, my boy," said the old man, shading his bleared eyes with his horny hand as he gazed at the blackened skeleton of the living-van.
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