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So that was where the Hammonds lived. And where the girl lived who was certain he was a "conceited snippet." Whatever he might be in reality he hoped it was not that. "Snippet" was not in his dictionary, but he didn't like the sound of it. "Who owns the packet?" he asked, to make conversation. "Zach Foster. Married Freewill Doane's daughter over to Harniss. She's dead now."
"It's awfully good of you, Humphrey," she answered, "but the Hammonds are on the road to Ripton, and I am going to ask Mr. Vane to drive me down there behind that adorable horse of his." This announcement produced a varied effect upon those who heard it, although all experienced surprise. Mrs.
The Hammonds had relatives to visit. Ruth and her three girl companions had telegraphed ahead for reservations at one of the big hotels, and they proposed to spend the two days and nights Mr. Hammond had arranged for in seeing the sights and attending two particular theatrical performances.
There was a great breaking up next day, and the old omnibus went off to the station with Bacon hanging on behind, the bicycle boy and his iron whirligig atop, and heads popping out of all the windows for last good-byes. Our party and the Hammonds were going by boat, and were all ready to start for the pier when Boo and little Harry were missing.
The Hammonds had unlimited means, the social instinct, worthy family traditions, and a talent for entertainment, a combination of qualities and circumstances which explained the importance of this family in the social life of the city. The mantle of an older leader who had passed had fallen comfortably on Mrs.
The other day she actually drove to the Hammonds' in a buggy with an unknown lawyer from Ripton. But I told you about it. Tell your gardener and the people that do your haying, dear, and your chicken woman. My chicken woman is most apathetic, but do you wonder, with the life they lead?" Mr. Humphrey Crewe might have had, with King Charles, the watchword "Thorough."
Since the afternoon he had driven Victoria to the Hammonds' he had had daily debates with an imaginary man in his own likeness who, to the detriment of his reading of law, sat across his table and argued with him.
The Hammonds sell after the Restoration to Sir Nicholas Carew, and before the end of the seventeenth century the Carews pass it on to the Orbys, and the Orbys pass it on to the Waytes. The Waytes sell it to a brewer of London, one Hinde. So far, contemptuous as has been the treatment of this great national centre, it had at least remained intact. With Hinde's son even that dignity deserted it.
"I expect that's Doctor Hammond's girl?" said the Mayor. "No, sir," said Dan. "These are the Hammonds who live over by the bridge. There's just two kids, Marg'ret and Joe, and their father. Joe served the eight o'clock Mass with me one week, you know, Jim, the week you were sick." "Sure," said Jim. "Hammond's a nice feller." Their father scraped his chin with a fat hand.
Pomfret, in her most imperial voice, "we ought to be going instantly, or we shan't have time to drop you at the Hammonds'." "I'll take you over in the new motor car," said Mr. Crewe, with his air of conferring a special train. "How much is gasoline by the gallon?" inquired Victoria. "I did a favour once for the local manager, and get a special price," said Mr. Crewe. "Humphrey," said Mrs.
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