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Updated: May 24, 2025
In the middle stood the two philanthropists they were in search of, freely bedaubed with tallow, one employed in boxing a boy's ears, the other in saving a huge inkbottle whereon some enterprising spirit had just laid hands by way of varying the rebel ammunition. Murray Edwardes, who was in his element, went to the rescue at once, helped by Robert.
"Yes," he said, "I have been in for row after row all this term." "Then I won't claim this wretched essay, and it can't matter to Collier, because he hasn't got anything which the dons can take away." "What do you mean?" he asked. "Why, Collier has got to tell Edwardes he borrowed the thing, and I shall sit tight, so they will naturally think it is yours." "I can't stand that," he replied.
Wardlaw, his predecessor and colleague, had speculatively little or nothing in common with Elsmere or Murray Edwardes. He was a devoted and orthodox Comtist, for whom Edwardes had provided an outlet for the philanthropic passion, as he had for many others belonging to far stranger and remoter faiths. By profession he was a barrister, with a small and struggling practice.
She let me know, too, the secret of his passionate absorption in gardens and interiors, lest I should think it argued any unmanliness in him. I remember so well her showing me that house in Edwardes Square. I had called one afternoon when I had known that Jevons wasn't there. I had left him at his club in Dover Street.
There was a sudden rush of blood to his face, and, with a gasping sob, Mr. Brander fell back in his chair insensible. Cuthbert ran to the door and opened it. "Mr. Levison, your employer is taken ill. Send the other clerk to fetch Dr. Edwardes at once, he will not have started on his rounds yet. Bring some water in here."
Suddhoo sleeps on the roof generally, except when he sleeps in the street. He used to go to Peshawar in the cold, weather to visit his son who sells curiosities near the Edwardes' Gate, and then he slept under a real mud roof. Suddhoo is a great friend of mine, because his cousin had a son who secured, thanks to my recommendation, the post of head-messenger to a big firm in the Station.
A far-sighted Boston reporter slid away for a full copy of the epic and an interview with the author; so that earth had nothing more to offer Captain Bart Edwardes, ex-whaler, shipwright, master-fisherman, and poet, in the seventy-third year of his age. "Naow, I call that sensible," said the Eastport man.
"American citizen?" Peter inquired. "Without a doubt. Of German descent, I should say, but nothing much left of it in his appearance. He settled over here in a huff because New York society wouldn't receive his wife." "I remember all about it," Peter declared. "She was a chorus girl, wasn't she? Nothing particular against her, but the fellow had no tact. Do you know him, Edwardes?"
"I am asking you a question and I demand an answer." Edwardes' voice rang out passionately. "I am no prig who supplies unasked codes of conduct to others even when they need it as badly as you do. But since you ask yes, I agree fully, and I add this to boot. You are the most appallingly irresponsible man whose hands have ever grasped power.
On this occasion Major Edwardes says that Lieutenants Lake, Pollock, Pearse, and Young all distinguished themselves, as did his writer, the brave Mr Quin, who led on the Sooraj Mookhee regiment; but the palm was carried off by a new volunteer, Mr McMahon, who had joined him only a few days before, and who now earned his title to be brought especially to notice by encountering in single combat the leader of the enemy's infantry, a powerful Sikh, whom he killed with one blow which divided his head.
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