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Updated: June 22, 2025
Pinton, however, knew one thing, and that was a ravenous desire to sink his teeth into pie, custard, or even bread. He felt with large, eager hands along the wall on the pantry side. With feverish joy he touched the knob a friendly knob, despite its cold, distant glaze of the door he sought. Pinton gave a tug, and then his heart stopped beating. The door was locked.
"Sit still and I'll order brandy. It will settle your stomach." That brought Pinton to his senses at once. "No, no, I'll be all right in a moment," he said rather huskily. "I never drink spirits. Thank you, all the same." "Don't mention it," said the man, and he tossed off his Würzburger. Each man stealthily regarded the other. Pinton saw the stranger of the lantern and staircase.
He sneered at stops and pedals, and believed, in his foolish way, that all polyphony was bound within the boards of the Well-Tempered Clavichord. Then the new alto came to the choir, and Pinton at being springtide, when the blood is in the joyful mood thought that he was in love. He was really athirst. This Friday evening he was genuinely disappointed and thirsty.
I am a musician, but I respect art ever, even when it reveals itself in manifold guises." Pinton felt that he was a man of address, a fellow of some wit; his confidential and rather patronizing pose moved his companion, who slyly grimaced. "So you are an organist and not a member of the noble Knights of the Centrebit and Jimmy?" he asked rather sarcastically.
Pinton called after him, and then went unsteadily homeward, full of generous resolves and pianistic ambitions. As he intermittently undressed he discovered, to his rage and amazement, that both his purse and watch had disappeared. The one was well filled; the other, gold. Blastion's technic had proved unimpeachable. Effinghame waited for Dr.
Hallam, realizing that it was Saturday night the predatory night of the week had secured her pastry, her confitures, her celebrated desserts; and so poor Pinton, all his sweet teeth furiously aching, his mouth watering, stood on the hither side of Paradise, a baffled peri in pantaloons!
She asked him casually if he had enjoyed his Saturday evening, and quite as casually damned the wandering cats that had played havoc in her pantry. She remarked that leaving windows open was a poor practice, even if hospitable in appearance, and nervous Mr. Pinton drank his coffee in silent assent and then hurried off to the church where he trod the organ pedals for a small salary's sake.
His face was open and smiling. He wore his hair rather long for an American, and it was blond and curling. He surveyed Pinton for a moment, then he said, in a most agreeable voice: "What luck, old pal?" Pinton dropped his pies, slammed the window, and got to his bedroom as fast as his nervous legs could carry him.
Pies, pies, cakes, pies, frosted cakes, cakes sweating golden, fruity promises, and cakes as icy as the hand of charity. Pinton was happy, glutton that he was, and he soon filled the pockets of his overcoat. What Mrs. Hallam might say in the morning he cared not.
You can readily imagine if a man has been in the habit of practising all day, even if he does 'burgle' at night, that to be suddenly deprived of all instrumental resources is a bitter blow." Pinton stuttered out an affirmative response.
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