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Updated: July 17, 2025
"What you gobstick players need is a time-table," says he, "instead of notes. Come in on the A about eight-fifteen. If you can do that well, we'll try to struggle along." "Don't get forte," Cooney replies cheerfully. "If you'd try to follow both those cornets instead of rambling along by yourself, you'd split, sure." "Better play cornet, too, Cooney," says Ad Smith, whirling around.
Havin' decided on that, I waits patient until eight-fifteen Monday evenin', and then breezes cheery and hopeful through the Ulls' front door and into the front room. No Westy in sight, or anybody else. The maid says the young ladies are in somewhere, and she'll tell 'em I've come.
"I suppose I may smoke, eh?" "On the north veranda, from seven until eight-fifteen," says the waiter. "Well, I'll be blistered!" says Old Hickory. While he's burnin' a couple of black perfectos out on the smoke reservation, I roams around the Restorium. It's furnished neat and simple, with lots of varnished woodwork and a few framed railroad photos on the walls.
"The two gentlemen who told us so much last night are both out of town. I made an excuse to call on them both early this morning just on nine o'clock. Dr. Ransford went up to London by the eight-fifteen. "Dr. Bryce, says his landlady, went out on his bicycle at half-past eight where, she didn't know, but, she fancied, into the country.
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