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Miles, it is evident that you and I have led righteous lives." "Being sandbagged seems to have given you an appetite," Furley observed. "And a game leg seems to have done the same for you," Julian rejoined. "Did the doctor ask you how you did it?" Furley nodded. "I just said that I slipped on the marshes. One doesn't talk of such little adventures as you and I experienced last night."
It isn't good enough, Miles." "Then let's be thankful it's going to stop," Furley declared. "We've pinned our colours to the mast, Julian. I don't like Fenn any more than you do, nor do I trust him, but I can't see, in this instance, that he has anything to gain by not running straight. Besides, he can't have faked the terms, and that's the only document that counts.
We stood still and got uncommonly wet. And I shot a goose, which made me very happy." "Then it must have been the conversation," she declared. "Is your friend a prophet or only one of the multitude?" "A prophet, most decidedly. He is a Mr. Miles Furley, of whom you must have heard." She started a little. "Miles Furley!" she repeated. "I had no idea that he lived in this part of the world."
It is you whose inspiration has carried them along: It is you who shall be their representative. Don't you realise," she went on, "that it is the very association of such men as yourself and Miles Furley and the Bishop with this movement which will endow it with reality in the eyes of the bourgeoisie of the country and Parliament?"
The youth in fisherman's oilskins, into whose hands that message passed last night, is Miss Catherine Abbeway. The young lady has referred me to you for some explanation as to its being in her possession." Furley remained absolutely speechless for several moments. His first expression was one of dazed bewilderment. Then the light broke in upon him. He began to understand.
Below that there is the shingle and the sea. That is where you take up your post." "Can I use my torch," Julian enquired, "and what am I to look out for?" "Heaven knows," replied Furley, "except that there's a general suggestion of communications between some person on land and some person approaching from the sea.
"How unpleasant to have any one else going about with a mouth exactly like one's own! No, I never had a brother, Mr. Orden, or a sister, and, as you may have heard, I am an enfant mechante. I live in London, I model very well, and I talk very bad sociology. As I think I told you, I know your anarchist friend, Miles Furley." "I shouldn't call Furley an anarchist," protested Julian.
Seems a pity to have had an adventure like that and not be able to open one's mouth about it." Furley grunted. "You don't want to join the noble army of gas bags," he said. "Much better make up your mind that it was a dream." "There are times," Julian confided, "when I am not quite sure that it wasn't."
From here he made his way with great care, almost crawling, until he came to the stile. In the marshes he was twice in salt water over his knees, but he scrambled out until he reached the grass-grown sand bank which Furley had indicated. Obeying orders, he lay down and listened intently for any fainter sounds mingled with the tumult of nature.
And if the Bishop will accompany you," he added, turning to the latter, "I shall be honoured." Furley made no reply, but, whispering something in Catherine's ear, took up his hat and left the room.
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