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Updated: May 5, 2025
Old Robert of Albany had been King Stork, his son Murdoch was King Log; and the misery was infinitely increased by the violence and lawlessness of Murdoch's sons. King Robert II. had left Scotland the fearful legacy of, as Froissart says, 'eleven sons who loved arms. Of these, Robert III. was the eldest, the Duke of Albany the second.
A skilled man could knock a knife, or even a heavy club, out of another's hand with a single flick of the wrist. And he'd had practice. He saw Murdoch's club dart in and take out two of the gang, one on the forward swing, one on the recover. Gordon's eyes popped at that. The man was totally unlike a Martian captain, and a knot of homesickness for Earth ran through his stomach.
In a few minutes, Wayne's supporters would have the booth again; there'd be a delay before any organized search could be made for the fugitives. He looked down at Murdoch's shoulder. "Come on," he said finally. "Or should I carry you?" Murdoch shook his head. "I'll walk. Get me to a place where we can talk and be damned to this. Gordon, I've got to talk but I don't have to live. I mean that!"
So the men scattered into a starry night, and went, each his way, through the streets of the sleeping village. Edmund Murdoch's studio stood high on Newlyn hill, and Barron had taken comfortable rooms in a little lodging-house close beside it.
Murdoch's solicitation, he once more bent his steps to the place of worship he had visited in the morning, with the earnest desire and prayer that he might hear such truths taught as would enable him to see Jesus.
Takauji's brother, Tadayoshi, became chief of the general staff in Kyoto, and "several Kamakura literati descendants of Oye, Nakahara, Miyoshi, and others were brought up to fill positions on the various boards, the services of some of the ablest priests of the time being enlisted in the work of drafting laws and regulations."* *Murdoch's History of Japan.
The mind has to be fertilized for the thought, or it can't think it. He brought the necessary influence to bear. It was like the night at Murdoch's house, the night when the Big Idea was born. Surely I owe that to Murdoch, and his wife, and Phyllis Bruce." The name of Phyllis Bruce came to him with almost a shock.
Joan got the fly free in a moment, and then, to Harry Murdoch's gratification, addressed him. The young fellow was Edmund Murdoch's cousin, and at present dwelt in Newlyn with the elder artist already mentioned as John Barron's friend. "May I make so bold as to ax if you do knaw a paintin' gen'leman by name o' o' Mister Jan?
Why, if my pup, Gip, were to run away, I should do for him what I have done for you no more, no less. So let us drop the subject, that's a good fellow, and then I'll sit down and chat with you." Never was there a pleasanter chat by any little party than by that which assembled in Mrs. Murdoch's best parlour that evening.
"What did you do to Murdoch?" South opened his eyes in innocent surprise. "Nothing." "Nothing be blowed, my boy. Murdoch's limping to beat the band." "Oh!" grinned South. "That was afterward; he got mixed up with my stick, and, I fear, hurt his shins."
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