Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: June 27, 2025
Leaving him for the moment we go back to the Pitkin mansion, and listen to & conversation between Mr. and Mrs. Pitkin. "Uncle Oliver is getting more and more eccentric every day," said the lady. "He brought home a boy to lunch to-day some one whom he had picked up in the street." "Was the boy's name Philip Brent?" asked her husband. "Yes, I believe so.
Readers also had a pleasant habit of leaving a sign-manual on the last page of a book, thus: "Timothy Pitkin perlegit A.D. 1765," "Cotton Smith perlegit 1740." A clear-speaking lesson are such records to this generation a lesson of patience and diligence.
"Put him in his stall," mumbled Pitkin. "To-morrow I'll see if I can get rid of him." It is a very stupid race horse which does not know its own stall. The stable hand released his hold on the halter and slapped the colt's flank. "G'long with yo'!" said he.
You will pardon my saying that it would have been wiser to employ a different messenger." "Why?" demanded Uncle Oliver, looking displeased. "Why, really, Uncle Oliver," said Mr. Pitkin, "I should think the result might convince you of that." "We had better let Philip tell his story," said Mr. Carter quietly. "How did it happen, Philip?"
"Really, Uncle Oliver, for a man of your age and good sense " "Thank you for that admission, Lavinia," said Mr. Carter mockingly. "Go on." "I was about to say that you seem infatuated with this boy, of whom we know nothing, except from his own account. To my mind his story is a most ridiculous invention." "Mr. Pitkin, did any one enter your store just after Philip left it to inquire after him?"
Pitkin escaped over the State line westward, beating the said warrant a nose in a whipping finish, and after a devious career covering many years and many States he turned up on the Jungle Circuit, bringing with him a string of horses, a gentle, soft-spoken old negro trainer, an Irish jockey named Mulligan, and two stable hands, each as black as the ace of spades.
The great elm over the Pitkin farm-house had been stripped of its golden glory, and now rose against the yellow evening sky, with its infinite delicacies of net work and tracery, in their way quite as beautiful as the full pomp of summer foliage.
I didn't of course know who he was, but I found in his pocket a letter directed to Oliver Carter, Madison Avenue. There was also a business card. He is connected in business with Mr. Pitkin, is he not?" "Yes, sir," answered Phil; "where is your house?" "In Bleecker Street, near by. Mr. Carter is lying on the bed. He is unconscious, but my wife heard him say: 'Call Philip. I suppose that is you?"
Old Man Curry found the shade first and felt that he was entitled to it by right of discovery, consequently he did not move when Henry M. Pitkin signified an intention of sharing the coolness with him. Old Man Curry had less than a bowing acquaintance with Pitkin, wished to know him no better, and had disliked him from the moment he had first seen him.
I am quite capable of managing my own affairs." When Mr. Pitkin had left the house, by no means in a good humor, Phil turned to his employer and said gratefully: "I don't know how to thank you, Mr. Carter, for your kind confidence in me. I admit that the story I told you is a strange one, and I could not have blamed you for doubting me." "But I don't doubt you, my dear Philip," said Mr.
Word Of The Day
Others Looking