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Updated: June 9, 2025
"Oh," cried the Indian lad angrily, "I wish you hadn't stopped me. I was just ready." "Why, what did you want to do, Singhy?" cried the other. "Fight," said the boy, with his eyes flashing and his dark brows drawn down close together. "Oh, you shouldn't fight directly after breakfast," said Glyn Severn, laughing good-humouredly. "Why not?" cried the other fiercely.
"I will show you what I mean if you come with me. I don't suppose you want the other fellows to hear it." "I don't care," said Slegge. "Some cock-and-bull story you are hatching, Severn." "You wrote that letter," said Glyn abruptly, and his voice sounded husky with the emotion and rage that were gathering in his breast. "Letter? Letter? What do you mean? Has one come for me by the post?"
Glyn Severn was silent, and soon after, as the two boys turned, they saw a group of their schoolfellows coming down the field laden with bats and stumps, while one carried a couple of iron-shod stakes round which was rolled a stout piece of netting. "Here," said Glyn suddenly, "let's go round the other side of the field. Old Slegge's along with them, and he'll be getting up a quarrel again.
"And I have only one enemy Slegge," he thought to himself, as he softly blew out the candle and crept back into bed; but it was long ere sleep came, for the writing, run by the blotting-paper but still vivid, seemed to dance before his eyes, and as he now mentally read it: "It was Glyn Severn who stole the Prince's belt."
He slapped his pockets as he spoke, and half-held open that of his jacket, the thought of the succulent treasures contained therein having completely swept away all his past ill-humour. "Oh, I don't know that I want anything to-night," said Glyn. "Yes, I do. I want to find little Burton. After we had gone away to-day Slegge kicked him brutally." "What for?" cried Singh indignantly.
On Nov. 15, 1666, the year of the fire of London, in which year Hyde had his town house in the Strand Glyn died in his house, in Portugal Row, Lincoln's Inn Fields. On June 15, 1691, Henry Pollexfen, Chief Justice of Common Pleas, expired in his mansion in Lincoln's Inn Fields.
Well, he's only got as far as the elephant, and that's in Brummagem town as sure as I am sitting here." "Do you hear this, Glyn?" cried Singh excitedly. "Oh yes, I hear," was the reply, and the two lads exchanged glances, while Ramball sat shaking and nodding his head like a mandarin image. "It's no use, gentlemen. You threw that chance away.
Glyn have been, I can see already, deceived by over sanguine estimates and they do not know all yet, but they shall, if I can find it out. "Letters leave here to-morrow, and I shall open this before I post it should there be any new feature. As at present advised, I shall go to Quebec on Wednesday night, and spend four or five days in that district.
With what gravity could I sign a warrant in its library, and with what dreamy comfort translate an ode of Lewis Glyn Cothi, my tankard of rich ale beside me. I wonder whether the proprietor is fond of the old bard and keeps good ale. Were I an Irishman instead of a Norfolk man I would go in and ask him.
"But, my dear Singh," interposed the Colonel, who looked so annoyed and worried that Glyn kicked his schoolfellow softly under the table, and then coloured up.
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