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Updated: June 26, 2025
And how long they'd have clung to one another there's no knowing, if it hadn't been for the language pouring from the tool-shed. "My dear," said the Parson, holding himself up and listening. "I don't think that can possibly be a Frenchman. He's too fluent." Mrs. Polwhele listened too, but after a while she was forced to cover her face with both hands.
Bligh had to tell the truth that he'd got it in the orchard at home: he and his father were trying to catch a horse there: the old man flung a hatchet to turn the horse and hit his boy in the face, marking him for life. Hastiness, you see, in the family. Well, the sight of his face, glowering back on her over his shoulder, was enough to dry up the speech in Mrs. Polwhele or any woman.
The two women stared at the fireplace: but, of course, that told them nothing, being empty, as usual at the time of year, with only a few shavings stuck about it by way of ornament. Martha, the first to pick up her wits, dashed out into the front hall. "Gone without his hat, too!" she fairly screamed, running her eye along the row of pegs. Mrs. Polwhele clasped her hands.
There was a talk as how the two lads had both been a courting of the same maid, that was Betsy Polwhele, and had fallen out about her, but how that might be he could not tell. Anyhow, she was not wed to one nor t'other of them, but went into a waste and died. 'I wonder if it was for Dick's sake. So Jem was not constant either. 'Except to his second love. That was a piteous little story too.
Parson Polwhele stood up in his vehicle and looked out ahead. The two chaises had narrowly missed doubling each other into a cocked hat; in fact, the boys had pulled up within a dozen yards of smash, and there stood the horses face to face and steaming. "Why, 'tis my Mary!" cries the Parson, and takes a leap out of the chaise. "Oh, Richard! Richard!" sobs Mrs. Polwhele.
Polwhele took a glance at the inside of the coach to make sure that her belongings were safe, and then, turning to the ladder that the Boots was holding for her to mount, up she trips to her outside place behind the box-seat, all in a fluff and commotion, and chattering so fast that the words hitched in each other like beer in a narrow-necked bottle. "Give you good morning, gentlemen!" said Mrs.
Polwhele very gingerly in the landlady's pattens, to find the Highflyer ready to start, the guard unlashing the tarpaulin that he'd drawn over the outside luggage, the horses steaming and anxious to be off, and on the box-seat a couple of gentlemen wet to the skin, and one of them looking as ugly as a chained dog in a street fight. This was Bligh, of course. His friend, Mr.
And with that he scrambled up and ran; and Spry heaved himself over the wall and followed. And there, in the south aisle, they found Mrs. Polwhele lying back in a pew and kicking like a stallion in a loose-box. My grandfather took her by the shoulders, while Spry ran for the jug of holy water that stood by the font.
The schooner had no wheel, but steered as light craft did then, and long afterwards with a bulky ash tiller, having iron eyes for lashing it in heavy weather. Three strong men stood by it now, obedient, yet muttering to one another, for another cable's length would bring them into danger of being run down by the frigate. "All clear for stays!" cried Polwhele, under orders from Charron. "Down helm!
At ten o'clock I'll join you in the churchyard." My grandfather went off to unlock the tool-shed, and the Parson back to comfort Mrs. Polwhele which was no easy matter. "There's something wrong with the parish since I've been away, and that you can't deny," she declared.
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