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Updated: June 2, 2025
Under every pole, and every shaft, and every horse, and every wheel as it would seem, the Gong-donkey metallically braying, when not struggling for life, or whipped out of the way. By one o'clock, all this stir has gone out of the streets, and there is no one left in them but Francis Goodchild. Francis Goodchild will not be left in them long; for, he too is on his way, 't'races.
'What are you about, Francis? demanded Mr. Idle. 'My bedroom is not down here. What the deuce are you carrying me at all for? I can walk with a stick now. I don't want to be carried. Put me down. Mr. Goodchild put him down in the old hall, and looked about him wildly. 'What are you doing? Idiotically plunging at your own sex, and rescuing them or perishing in the attempt? asked Mr.
Never did he feel more disastrously convinced that he had committed a very grave error in judgment than when he found himself standing in the rain at the bottom of a steep mountain, and knew that the responsibility rested on his weak shoulders of actually getting to the top of it. The honest landlord went first, the beaming Goodchild followed, the mournful Idle brought up the rear.
There's Joseph White, master of the mission smack Cholmondeley, a splendid feller he is; an' Bogers of the Cephas, an' Snell of the Ruth, an' Kiddell of the Celerity, an' Moore of the M.A.A., an' Roberts of the Magnet, an' Goodchild and Brown, an' a lot more, all first-rate fellers, whose little fingers are worth the whole o' your big body."
The temperature changed, the dialect changed, the people changed, faces got sharper, manner got shorter, eyes got shrewder and harder; yet all so quickly, that the spruce guard in the London uniform and silver lace, had not yet rumpled his shirt-collar, delivered half the dispatches in his shiny little pouch, or read his newspaper. Carlisle! Idle and Goodchild had got to Carlisle.
'So I keep out of it altogether. It would be better for you, if you did the same. Mr. Goodchild, who is always in love with somebody, and not unfrequently with several objects at once, made no reply. He heaved a sigh of the kind which is termed by the lower orders 'a bellowser, and then, heaving Mr. These two had sent their personal baggage on by train: only retaining each a knapsack.
Goodchild had expected, for he was at least two-and-fifty; but, that was nothing. What was startling in him was his remarkable paleness. His large black eyes, his sunken cheeks, his long and heavy iron-grey hair, his wasted hands, and even the attenuation of his figure, were at first forgotten in his extraordinary pallor. There was no vestige of colour in the man.
Goodchild made this study of him while he was examining the limb, and as he laid it down. Mr. Goodchild wishes to add that he considers it a very good likeness. It came out in the course of a little conversation, that Doctor Speddie was acquainted with some friends of Thomas Idle's, and had, when a young man, passed some years in Thomas Idle's birthplace on the other side of England.
The bright Goodchild amiably smiled. 'So you do, said Thomas. 'I mean it. To me you are an absolutely terrible fellow. You do nothing like another man. Where another fellow would fall into a footbath of action or emotion, you fall into a mine. Where any other fellow would be a painted butterfly, you are a fiery dragon. Where another man would stake a sixpence, you stake your existence.
Goodchild, through having no change of outer garments but broadcloth and velvet, suddenly became a magnificent portent in the Innkeeper's house, a shining frontispiece to the fashions for the month, and a frightful anomaly in the Cumberland village.
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