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Updated: May 10, 2025
"I'm f-frightfully overworked at present with rehearsals and things, so I applied for a f-fortnight's leave from my department and everybody thinks I'm f-fishing in Scotland or doing a walking tour on Dartmoor. This party is my f-final dissipation, Lady Poynter." He looked round to see with whom he had still to shake hands. As he began to speak, Barbara had shivered so violently that Mrs.
So much so indeed that for days now he had slept by day, to the total wreck of his aesthetic reputation, and watched by night, convinced that Miss Westfall's camp was prone to strange and dangerous visitors. Excellency no doubt remembered the knife and the bullet. The Baron sighed. "Poynter," he said simply, "to a man of my nature and diplomatic position, a habit of candor is difficult.
Poynter had said he was building himself a much-needed tunic, though he had experienced considerable difficulty in the excavation of the sleeves. "What the devil is the matter with you, Carl?" demanded Dick Sherrill irritably. "If I'd known you were going to moon under a tree and whistle through that infernal flute half the time, I'd never have suggested camping.
Poynter promptly unloaded all but a scant layer of hay, took the reins himself, and thundered with expedition up the trail in quest of her, with Dick Whittington barking furiously. It was much too spectacular a performance for a daily diet.
This morning to the office, full of resolution to spend the whole day at business, and there, among other things, I did agree with Poynter to be my clerke for my Victualling business, and so all alone all the day long shut up in my little closett at my office, drawing up instructions, which I should long since have done for my Surveyours of the Ports, Sir W. Coventry desiring much to have them, and he might well have expected them long since.
Poynter made in every village, and finally what an endless trail of shirts and cuffs and collars lay behind him, doomed, like the cheese and buns, as he feelingly put it, to one-night stands, only Ras and Philip knew; but certainly the hay-nomad combined the minimum of effort with the maximum of efficiency to the marvel of all who beheld him. Ras's problem was infinitely simpler. He never changed.
I knew it would come out though how could I foresee that the Baron and Mr. Poynter and the Prince would know? I I told your grandfather so years ago, but he pledged me on his deathbed and your father was wild and clever like Carl and singular in his notions. I'll never forget your grandfather's face when you ran away into the forest to sleep as a child.
When the dreadful commotion in the wagon at last subsided, the minstrel came through the trees and sweeping off his sombrero, bowed and smiled. "Merciful Heavens!" exclaimed the girl, staring. It was Mr. Poynter. "I'm sorry," regretted Mr. Poynter. "I'm really sorry I feel so well but I've got a music-machine."
Poynter. "Hum!" said Philip dryly. "That's most likely retribution. A man can't unwind all that hullabaloo without feeling the strain. Water, Johnny, and if you have some smelling salts handy, bring 'em along." After one or two vigorous attentions on the part of Mr. Poynter, the nomad of the music machine opened his eyes and stared blankly about him.
Diane made the coffee, arousing the frank and guileless interest of Mr. Poynter. The fish began to sizzle violently.
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