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Updated: June 12, 2025
Aunt Elizabeth said in her trembling voice: "No. No Anne I assure you. Nothing at all. As you know, the Bible Committee wanted to discuss the new scheme. Last Tuesday. Mr. Warlock, Mr. Simms, young Holliday, Miss Martin, Mary Hearst. And Sophie Dunn. AND Mr. Turner. Nothing at all. It was a wet day. Last Tuesday afternoon." "Your mother is quite well, I hope, Mr.
WHEN this present nineteenth century was younger by a good many years than it is now, a certain friend of mine, named Arthur Holliday, happened to arrive in the town of Doncaster exactly in the middle of the race-week, or, in other words, in the middle of the month of September.
He should know; he'd been close at hand when it happened. He felt a warm emotion, a sense of comradeship, for the referee. He'd surely been square; he'd made Holliday break clean. He felt an impulse to joke with the referee, to banter him, and bid him count a million if he wanted to. And then another thought. How easily he was thinking! With what precision! Yellow!
"No," answered the latter, "no, unless you call it a message about takin' the responsibility of Holliday Kendrick and his schemes off my hands. That is," remembering Emily's desire not to have her name mentioned in the matter, "she didn't leave that. But I guess you can take charge of that mess, if you want to." Mr. Daniels smiled a superior smile.
And he'd doubted that the adhesive would do much; with the first savage slash Holliday tore it away and the lid hung closed again. But he could see from the other eye even though that seemed but a puffy mass. There was a slit from which he could look out upon an insane, tumultuous world. So he complimented himself upon his cunning.
He challenged Montague who was being hailed as the logical title-holder, and in so doing seemed tacitly to admit that he realized the claim was good. Montague ignored him. He challenged Holliday, and he was afraid of Holliday, too. And Holliday made game of him noisily. "What'll it get me to fight you?" he wanted to know.
Involuntarily Roger halted, conscious of an acute displeasure at the sight before him, a feeling compounded of resentment towards Holliday, whom he regarded as a puppy, and a sort of hurt disappointment in the girl. Was she, too, one of the many women who fell victims to Arthur's charm? He had thought better of her. Whatever the situation, his appearance put an end to it.
The coach came lumbering up, at a speed which for coaches in those days was wonderful, and as it stopped Colonel Holliday leapt out, sword in hand. "Is it all over?" he exclaimed. "Is Rupert hurt?" "It is all over, sir; and I have not so much as a scratch," Rupert said.
Holliday just when it was that he attended courses at that institution. He frankly said that he could not remember. A "queer feller," indeed, as Mr. Tarkington has called him. He may have been a footpad during that period. I have often thought to write to the dean of the university and check the matter up. It may be that entertaining anecdotes of our hero's college career could be spaded up.
This original, mellow, convivial, informal and yet soundly argued critique has been overlooked by many who have delighted to honor Holliday as an essayist. But it is vastly worth reading.
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