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Updated: June 27, 2025
It was the first time he had found leisure to fish, though from the very outset of his Potwell career he had promised himself abundant indulgence in the pleasures of fishing.
Somewhere in the little room behind the shop, he supposed, but he could not think where more precisely. Anyhow it didn't matter now. He undressed himself calmly, got into bed, and fell asleep almost immediately. The Potwell Inn
You the noo bloke at the Potwell Inn?" Mr. Polly felt evasive. "'Spose I am," he replied hoarsely, and quickened his pace. "Arf a mo'," said Uncle Jim, taking his arm. I want a word with you, mister. See?" Mr. Polly wriggled his arm free and stopped. "What is it?" he asked, and faced the terror. See? just a friendly word or two. Just to clear up any blooming errors. That's all I want.
"Itchabod," the tramp was saying in the voice of one who reasons on the side of the inevitable. "It's Fair Itchabod, O' Man. There's no going back to it." It was about two o'clock in the afternoon one hot day in high May when Mr. Polly, unhurrying and serene, came to that broad bend of the river to which the little lawn and garden of the Potwell Inn run down.
A mysterious shadow seemed to fall athwart the sunshine and pleasantness of the Potwell Inn. "I'm not a scooter," said Mr. Polly. "Uncle Jim is." She whistled a little flatly for a moment, and threw small stones at a clump of meadow-sweet that sprang from the bank. Then she remarked: "When Uncle Jim comes back he'll cut your insides out.... P'raps, very likely, he'll let me see."
The young people in the rainbow shirts and blouses formed the centre of interest; they were under the leadership of a gold-spectacled senior with a fluting voice and an air of mystery; he ordered everything, and showed a peculiar knowledge of the qualities of the Potwell jams, preferring gooseberry with much insistence. Mr.
Thursday was the early closing day at Lammam, and next to Sunday the busiest part of the week at the Potwell Inn. Sometimes as many as six boats all at once would be moored against the ferry punt and hiring rowboats. People could either have a complete tea, a complete tea with jam, cake and eggs, a kettle of boiling water and find the rest, or refreshments a la carte, as they chose.
The cyclist was a literary man named Warspite, who suffered from insomnia; he had risen and come out of his house near Lammam just before the dawn, and he discovered Mr. Polly partially concealed in the ditch by the Potwell churchyard wall. It is an ordinary dry ditch, full of nettles and overgrown with elder and dogrose, and in no way suggestive of an arsenal.
The next day was Wednesday and a slack day for the Potwell Inn. It was a hot, close day, full of the murmuring of bees. One or two people crossed by the ferry, an elaborately equipped fisherman stopped for cold meat and dry ginger ale in the bar parlour, some haymakers came and drank beer for an hour, and afterwards sent jars and jugs by a boy to be replenished; that was all. Mr.
A month later a leisurely and dusty tramp, plump equatorially and slightly bald, with his hands in his pockets and his lips puckered to a contemplative whistle, strolled along the river bank between Uppingdon and Potwell.
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