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Updated: May 13, 2025
He came down again and told the crowd that it was the editor who had been killed. The crowd then dispersed. A detective from Scotland Yard explains the method of the prisoner's capture. Moggridge wrote to the superintendent saying that he would be passing Scotland Yard on the following Wednesday on business.
What an arm you’ve got, man.” “Pretty fair, sir,” said Moggridge, complacently. “And I am thankful, too,” continued Mr Beveridge, “that you’re a man of some sense. There are a lot of fools in the world, Moggridge, and I’m somewhat of an epicure in the matter of heads.” “Mine ’as been considered pretty sharp,” Moggridge admitted, with a gratified relaxation of his wooden countenance.
“On my honour, nothing,—I merely haven’t washed his face.” By this time Moggridge was coming close upon them. “You won’t forget a poor soldier?” said Mr Beveridge in a lower voice. There was no reply. “A poor soldier,” he added, with a sigh, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. “So poor that even if I had got out, I could only have ridden till I dropped.”
"English Men of Letters" series. To F. C. Burnand, Esq., Peebles, N.B. SIR: The jokes which you forwarded to Punch on Monday last are so good that we used them three years ago. Yours faithfully, J. MOGGRIDGE, Ed. Punch. To Mr. D'Oyley Carte, Cross Stone Buildings, Westminster Bridge Road. DEAR SIR: The comic opera by your friends Messrs.
"There, there," he said, "you'll be better in a minute;" and when she was strong enough to walk, he took her home, Theophil, filled with sudden misgivings, having to see the evening's entertainment to its close. Mr. Moggridge blamed the bad ventilation, as he tenderly helped Jenny along the few yards to home. "No," said Jenny, with a big tearing sigh, "I don't think it was that.
My name,” he drew a card-case from the pocket of his fur coat, “is, as you see, Dr Escott of Clankwood.” Meanwhile Moggridge, after hurriedly investigating the platform he was on, suddenly spied a tall fur-coated figure on the opposite side. Without a moment’s hesitation he sprang on to the rails, and had just mounted the other side as the station-master and two porters appeared.
"All we want you to do," he said in conclusion, "is to make the place go, give it new blood, new fire; as to how you do it, that is your own business and I shall no more interfere with you in that than I should expect you to instruct me on the subject of York hams. We must all be specialists nowadays, specialists," repeated Mr. Moggridge, with a feeling that he too had discovered planets.
Here's Minnie eating her egg at the moment opposite and at t'other end of the line are we past Lewes? there must be Jimmy or what's her twitch for? There must be Moggridge life's fault. Life imposes her laws; life blocks the way; life's behind the fern; life's the tyrant; oh, but not the bully!
“Nice little nag this, Moggridge,” he remarked, airily. “Nice sweat you’ve give me,” rejoined his attendant, wrathfully. “You don’t mean to say you ran after me?” “I does mean to say,” Moggridge replied grimly, seizing the reins. “Want to lead him? Very well—it makes us look quite like the Derby winner coming in.” “Derby loser you means, thanks to them gates bein’ shut.” “Gates shut? Were they?
The Canon in the chair smiled benignantly, with an expression that I can only compare to buttered rolls. Moggridge, not entirely comfortable, it having been by some mysterious atmospheric effect conveyed to him that he was a tradesman and a dissenter, in which latter capacity he felt a certain traditional resentment towards his complacent fellow listeners.
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