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Updated: June 6, 2025
"What's the good of a thing that you can't put down in the ashes to warm, hey, neighbours; that's what I ask?" "Right, Grandfer," said Sam; and the mead then circulated. "Well," said Timothy Fairway, feeling demands upon his praise in some form or other, "'tis a worthy thing to be married, Mr. He always had his great indignation ready against anything underhand."
So I went ashore with three or four Malays, and the Old Boy's time we had poking in and out over the silt to find fairway, even for the gig. At last we could make round toward a little clearing in the bamboos, with a big canary tree in the middle. All was going well, when suddenly the mate grunted, pointing dead ahead.
Where do I hit it?" "Oh, straight ahead." "But isn't it dangerous? I mean, suppose I smash a window in that house over there?" He indicated a charming bijou residence some five hundred yards down the fairway. "In that case," I replied, "the owner comes out in his pyjamas and offers you the choice between some nuts and a cigar." He seemed reassured, and began to address the ball.
As soon as he arrived he laid her down carefully by the entrance, and then ran and cut with his pocketknife an armful of the dryest fern. Spreading this within the shed, which was entirely open on one side, he placed his mother thereon; then he ran with all his might towards the dwelling of Fairway.
Wakened abruptly from the spell of the hour, they had taken the hail at first for a cry of distress. They race up, lifting their poles above their heads as a sign the fairway is blocked, and the word of command, "Lock in, lock in!" is flung from man to man along the bank. "Lock in it is!" cries the man at the head, and runs from the camp-fire down to the waterside.
Coming in, there is certainly no shortness about the holes, and there is plenty of scope for the man who wants to open out his shoulders with his driver and his brassy, while there are hazards everywhere for the punishment of the balls that are not kept in the fairway.
"I think I might try my brassey again here," he said. "I have a nice lie." "Is it wise?" I said. He looked down the hill. "What I was thinking," he said, "was that with it I might wing that man Bingham. I see he is standing right out in the middle of the fairway." I followed his gaze. It was perfectly true. Ralph Bingham was leaning on his bicycle in the roadway, smoking a cigarette.
Anybody who had passed through Blooms-End about eleven o'clock on the morning fixed for the wedding would have found that, while Yeobright's house was comparatively quiet, sounds denoting great activity came from the dwelling of his nearest neighbour, Timothy Fairway. It was chiefly a noise of feet, briskly crunching hither and thither over the sanded floor within.
A fine timber wharf extended along the entire northern side of the island, with massive bollards sunk into the soil at regular intervals for ships to make fast to; half a dozen trunk buoys occupied the middle of the fairway; and the whole settlement was completely screened from prying eyes by the heavy belt of standing timber that had been left undisturbed on the southern shore of the island.
It was what he said made me leap like a young gazelle. "Miss Rockmetteller!" And in came a large, solid female. The situation floored me. I'm not denying it. Hamlet must have felt much as I did when his father's ghost bobbed up in the fairway. I'd come to look on Rocky's aunt as such a permanency at her own home that it didn't seem possible that she could really be here in New York.
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