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Updated: June 13, 2025
What 'ave you done with 'im? inquired Crass. 'I think 'e'll be all right, replied Philpot. 'He wouldn't let me go no further with 'im: said if I didn't go away, 'e'd go for me! But I believe 'e'll be all right. I think the fall sobered 'im a bit. 'Oh, 'e's all right, said Crass offhandedly. 'There's nothing the matter with 'im.
'Even in times of peace, thousands of people standing idle and tamely starving in their own fertile country, because a few land "Lords" forbid them to cultivate it. 'Is there any more questions? demanded Philpot, breaking a prolonged silence.
"We'd watch you do the things at first, of course," said Cusack, "till we twigged all the dodges." "And it would be jolly good practice for you, you know, in case ever old Mix-'em-up is laid up, and you have to lecture instead." Philpot regarded his two would-be pupils doubtfully, but softened considerably as they went on.
"And her head has not been turned by the compliments that she has, of course, received?" "I don't think so, sir. She said her mind has been made up, ever since I brought her back to Gibraltar; so you see, the compliments did not go for much." "Well, Bob, I will write to Major Harcourt. I shall hand you over this place, altogether, and settle down in my old quarters in Philpot Lane."
While he was doing this the sound of Crass's whistle shrilled through the house. 'Thank Gord! exclaimed Philpot fervently as he laid his brushes on the top of his pot and joined in the general rush to the kitchen. The scene here is already familiar to the reader.
This confession of faith caused a fresh outburst of hilarity, because of course everyone knew what a Bush Baptist was. 'If 'evven's goin' to be full of sich b r's as Hunter, observed Eaton, 'I think I'd rather go to the other place. 'If ever ole Misery DOES get into 'eaven, said Philpot, ''e won't stop there very long.
'Do you think I'm drunk or wot? 'No. Certainly not, replied Philpot, hastily. 'You're all right, as right as I am myself. But you know wot I mean. Let's go 'ome. You don't want to stop 'ere all night, do you? By this time Alf had arrived at the door of the back of the bar. He was a burly young man about twenty-two or twenty-three years of age.
'It don't seem right that after living in misery and poverty all our bloody lives, workin' and slavin' all the hours that Gord A'mighty sends, that we're to be bloody well set fire and burned in 'ell for all eternity! It don't seem feasible to me, you know. 'It's my belief, said Philpot, profoundly, 'that when you're dead, you're done for. That's the end of you.
This man was John Philpot Curran, the most dauntless of advocates, one of the truest and bravest of his race. Although a politician of the school of Grattan, and wholly untainted with French principles, he identified himself absolutely with his unhappy clients, "predoomed to death."
Philpot said "All right," and went, leaving the others to poke up the fire and get all ready for the reception of the pan. He was a long while about it, certainly, considering that the chemistry- room was only just at the end of the passage. "I wonder what he's up to?" said Pilbury, when after about three minutes he did not return.
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