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Updated: May 10, 2025
Clodd and Bonner's clerk, at Clodd's expense. The residue worked out at eleven hundred and sixty-nine pounds and a few shillings. Postwhistle, of Rolls Court, of ten, presented by the promoter; Mr. Postwhistle's first floor front, of one, paid for by poem published in the first number: "The Song of the Pen." Choosing a title for the paper cost much thought.
Postwhistle's, young Grindley having descended into the cellar to grind coffee, "I'd tell you what to do. Take a bun-shop somewhere in the neighbourhood of a girls' school, and put that assistant of yours in the window. You'd do a roaring business." "There's a mystery about 'im," said Mrs. Postwhistle. "Know what it is?" "If I knew what it was, I shouldn't be calling it a mystery," replied Mrs.
But if you tell me so, why, I suppose you are. Come in." The weak-kneed wastrel, receiving to his astonishment a shilling, departed. Grindley senior had selected wisely. Mrs. Postwhistle's theory was that although very few people in this world understood their own business, they understood it better than anyone else could understand it for them.
Yes, you've got it quite right without a single blunder. I do want to get rid of 'im." "Then," said Mr. Clodd, reseating himself, "it can be done." "Thank God for that!" was Mrs. Postwhistle's pious ejaculation. "It is just as I thought," continued Mr. Clodd. "The old innocent he's Gladman's brother-in-law, by the way has got a small annuity.
"Nothing like looking in the right place for a thing when you've finished looking in the others," observed Mrs. Postwhistle. "What do you mean?" demanded Jack. "Just what I say," answered Mrs. Postwhistle. Jack Herring looked at Mrs. Postwhistle. But Mrs. Postwhistle's face was not of the expressive order. "Post office still going strong?" asked Jack Herring.
Don't you do it, Jack. Providence has imposed this upon us. Our duty is to show him the folly of indulging in senseless escapades." "I think we might give him a dinner," thought the stout and sympathetic Porson. "What I propose to do," grinned Jack, "is to take him round to Mrs. Postwhistle's. She's under a sort of obligation to me. It was I who got her the post office.
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