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Settling back in his piazza chair, his big hands locked together, he would listen, amusing himself with his pet theory of Gargoyle's "undressed mind." "By the way," he said once, "that reminds me, have you ever seen our young Solomon of the flower-harem smile?" "Of course I haven't; neither have you." Young Mrs. Strang averred it confidently.
I haven't anything for you, Zeb." "I'll use the king," said the boy, and pulled his prisoner out of the buggy. The bound Gargoyle's arms extended far out beyond its head, so by grasping its wrists Zeb found the king made a very good club. The boy was strong for one of his years, having always worked upon a farm; so he was likely to prove more dangerous to the enemy than the Wizard.
He stood bareheaded, and his massive, lined, hard, weather-beaten face might have been a sneering gargoyle's, carved out of granite on some cathedral wall. He stood half sheltered by the projecting ledge, and his aspect so fascinated me that I forgot my resolution to shoot to kill. "Bonjour, M. Hewlett," he called across the chasm. "Don't be afraid of me any more than I am afraid of you.
He moved to go, one hand on Gargoyle's unresponsive shoulder, when the office door swung open. "Now this is real trouble," laughed a woman's fresh, deep-chested voice. "Doctor Mach, it means using one of your tall measuring-glasses or permitting these lovely things to wilt; some one has inundated us with flowers. I've already filled one bath-tub; I've even used the buckets in the operating-room."
"Oh, don't you think of that it wasn't your doing" she melted towards him now she had a genuine cause for indignation "and we've come through it better than we hoped, and some of us deserved." Lawrence gave her an odd smile, which made his face with its innumerable lines and pouches look rather like a gargoyle's. Then he walked off bare-headed into the twilight.
The idea is that the public sees the photograph, pauses spell-bound for an instant, and then with a cry of ecstasy rushes off to the book-shop and buys copy after copy of the gargoyle's latest novel. Of course, in practice, it works out just the other way.
The guv'nor had got off, no doubt, to unhitch that heavy gate the one you had to lift. That 'orse he was a masterpiece of mischief! His difference with the animal still rankled in a mind that did not easily forgive. Half an hour later, he entered the lighted kitchen shaking and gasping, tears rolling down his furrowed cheeks into the corners of his gargoyle's mouth, and panted out: "O, my Gord!
Strang with his amused laugh fended off all protest and neighborly advice. "That's Gargoyle's special variety of hashish. He lives in a flower-harem in a five-year-old Solomon's Song. I've often seen the irises kowtowing to him, and his attitude toward them is distinctly personal and lover-like.
A voice from the path said, "Beautiful evenin', ma'am." The "old scoundrel," Pettance, stiffer in the ankle-joints, with more lines in his gargoyle's face, fewer stumps in his gargoyle's mouth, more film over his dark, burning little eyes, was standing before her, and, behind him, little Gyp, one foot rather before the other, as Gyp had been wont to stand, waited gravely. "Oh, Pettance, Mr.
To think of him speaking his mind out like any one else! I allus took his part I could ha' told 'em he had his own notions!" There was no doubt as to Gargoyle's having the "notions."
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