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Updated: June 6, 2025
I'm not superstitious, but my luck has gone. I can't write any more." "Eric, that's not true!" He compressed his lips and shrugged his shoulders, resignedly. "You know best, no doubt. Since we met, I've written the first draft of a novel, which is unreadable, and a play. . . . I sent the play to Manders about a fortnight ago." "Without telling me? Don't you like sharing things with me any longer?"
On his way to luncheon he paused on the steps of the Thespian, trying to see it as a club and not as one of many places where Barbara had telephoned to him. . . . Manders, of course, insisted on a champagne luncheon to wish him Godspeed; at intervals he asked how long the tour was to be; and Eric wondered whether a suicide or a condemned man went through this recurrent sense of parting, recurrently spiced with surprise.
Eric allowed the first act to be played without interruption; at the end he jumped up and entered into whispered conversation with Manders, turning the leaves of the manuscript and tapping them impressively with his pencil. One player after another emerged from the wings and stood listening, nodding and discussing as each point was thrashed out.
"I wanted to talk about this play of yours," he explained. "Well, can you lunch to-morrow, say, half-past one?" "Yes. I should like to. What do you think of it, Manders?" There was a pause. "It's too long to discuss now." "You can just say whether you like it or not." "I'll tell you all about it to-morrow. Cheerio, boy." Eric was irritated by Manders' uncommunicativeness.
At the club, Manders was lunching with a square-faced law lord and a doctor with humorous, shrewd eyes, who called upon Eric to join them. "We never see anything of you nowadays," complained Dr. Gaisford. "I don't have time to get as far away as this for lunch every day," Eric answered, as he pulled a chair in to the table. "You're cutting your vacation short, aren't you, Lord Ettrick?"
And yet it was over Raffles that she took all the wind from my sails, exactly as she had done at Lord's, only now she did it at parting, and sent me off into the dusk a slightly puzzled and exceedingly exasperated man. "Of course," said Camilla at her garden gate, "of course you won't repeat a word of what I've told you, Mr. Manders?"
We were getting great girls now, and my mother sent Miss Manders away, and left us to our own devices. 'My sister Lucy had been very different since our father died. She was so quiet and still, that I often wondered what was the matter with her. She spent nearly all her time reading her Bible in a little attic chamber.
He was in the middle of his preparations when Harry Manders entered in a suit of light tweeds, clutching a flat-brimmed bowler hat in one hand and a leather-topped cane in the other. "'Mornin', Eric. Hullo, Phil! Sinister combination for a poor devil of an actor-manager author and agent. What's this you're givin' me? Well, only up to the top On my honour, boy, only up to the top!"
"I hae served ane master before he became a pirate," he said, "an' I don't want to try anither after he has finished bein' ane. If I serve ony mon, let him be one wha has been righteous, wha is righteous now, an' wha will continue in righteousness." "Then serve Mr. Delaplaine," said Dickory. The Manders soon removed to the little house where Dickory was born.
"I'm Salter from Gregory's. Manders, the head assistant, asked me to meet you. I'll be glad to help you get your things ashore and take you to the Strand Hotel, where I have booked you a room." "That is most awfully good of you," replied Shafto. "On Monday I believe I am to get quarters in a chummery." "Ah, so you are settled, I see.
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