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Updated: June 20, 2025
You could not call it a stride. It was like the "crest-tossing Bellerophon," a kind of prancing gait. Guy Heavystone pranced toward me. "Lord Lovel he stood at the garden gate, A-combing his milk-white steed." It was the winter of 186- when I next met Guy Heavystone. He had left the University and had entered the 76th "Heavies."
It was a bachelor's apartment, characteristically furnished in the taste of the proprietor. A few claymores and battleaxes were ranged against the wall, and a culverin, captured by Sir Ralph Heavystone, occupied the corner, the other end of the room being taken up by a light battery. Foils, boxing-gloves, saddles, and fishing-poles lay around carelessly.
There was a sternness about the lower part of his face, the old Heavystone look, a sternness, heightened, perhaps, by the snaffle-bit which, in one of his strange freaks, he wore in his mouth to curb his occasional ferocity. His dress was well adapted to his square-set and herculean frame.
You could not call it a stride. It was like the "crest-tossing Bellerophon," a kind of prancing gait. Guy Heavystone pranced toward me. "Lord Lovel he stood at the garden gate, A-combing his milk-white steed." It was the winter of 186- when I next met Guy Heavystone. He had left the university and had entered the 79th "Heavies."
Guy Heavystone had died as he had lived, HARD. My father was a north-country surgeon. He had retired, a widower, from her Majesty's navy many years before, and had a small practice in his native village. When I was seven years old he employed me to carry medicines to his patients.
Johnny Starleigh, then a student at San Jose, one morning found a newspaper clipping in a letter from Miss Amelia Stryker. It read as follows: "The excavators in the new tunnel in Heavystone Ridge lately discovered the skeletons of two unknown men, who had evidently been crushed and entombed some years previously, by the falling of a large tree over the mouth of their temporary refuge.
With the rapidity of lightning, Guy Heavystone cast the net over the head of the ringleader, ejaculated "Habet!" and with a backstroke of his cavalry sabre severed the member from its trunk, and drawing the net back again, cast the gory head upon the floor, saying quietly, "One."
It was a bachelor's apartment, characteristically furnished in the taste of the proprietor. A few claymores and battle-axes were ranged against the wall, and a culverin, captured by Sir Ralph Heavystone, occupied the corner, the other end of the room being taken up by a light battery. Foils, boxing-gloves, saddles, and fishing-poles lay around carelessly.
We descended to dinner. "He carries weight, he rides a race, 'Tis for a thousand pound." "There is Flora Billingsgate, the greatest coquette and hardest rider in the country," said my companion, Ralph Mortmain, as we stood upon Dingleby Common before the meet. I looked up and beheld Guy Heavystone bending haughtily over the saddle, as he addressed a beautiful brunette.
His eyes were glittering but pitiless. There was a sternness about the lower part of his face, the old Heavystone look, a sternness heightened, perhaps, by the snaffle-bit which, in one of his strange freaks, he wore in his mouth to curb his occasional ferocity. His dress was well adapted to his square-set and herculean frame.
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