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Updated: May 21, 2025
It was Reade's turn to ask: "Why?" "Just go to the door and take a look at the sky," suggested Ferrers. Tom swung the door open and looked. "Well?" he asked. "What do you think of the sky?" Jim persisted. "It looks as though we might have a little snow," Tom admitted. "A little, and then a whole lot more," nodded Ferrers. "Notice how still the air is?
Rachael he was no she, but what of that? was given the free run of the garden of Reade's house at Knightsbridge. He had everything that any normal goat could desire a rustic stable, a green lawn, the best of food. Yet Rachael pined and grew thinner and thinner.
The new-comers certainly looked somewhat like Charles Reade's picturesque pair, and every one watched them with idle interest as they drew nearer.
By the time I am through with you you'll slink into a corner every time you see me coming near. You scoundrel, you bully!" Tom's fists continued to descend. Dolph's tone changed from one of entreaty to one of dire threats. He would spend the rest of his life, he declared, in dogging Reade's tracks until he succeeded in killing the boy. "That doesn't worry me any.
We're going down these steps for the last time as Central Grammar boys. I'd rather do it in silence, and thoughtfully." "Isn't Dickins the queer old chap?" demanded Harry Hazelton, falling back by Reade's side. "It's a pity you couldn't be queer, just for once, and hold your tongue until we are outside the good old schoolyard," grunted Tom.
"What happened between you and the crowd?" pressed Darrin, scenting some news from Reade's mysterious, half-sulky manner. "Never you mind," Tom growled. "Don't tell us," Dick urged. "We can guess a few things, anyway. You've a bruised spot over your left cheek bone that looks like the mark of a punch on the face." "Go ahead and tell us what happened, Tom," urged Greg. Reade only scowled.
Prescott added, to her husband: "I think the back of Tom Reade's head contains more pranks than that of any other boy I ever knew." "I don't imagine our own son is any too far behind him," replied Mr. Prescott dryly. A minute or two passed. Then there sounded under one of the store's rear windows a most realistic crash of glass.
From those who had figured in the life of royal courts, he inherited a romantic nature, a love of art, and a very delicate perception of the niceties of cultivated usage. Such was Charles Reade keen observer, scholar, Bohemian a man who could be both rough and tender, and whose boisterous ways never concealed his warm heart. Reade's school-days were Spartan in their severity.
There were foot-notes to this extravagant piece of literature wherein the author endeavored to show that the whole thing was within the possibilities; he said he got the incident of the whale traveling from Behring's Strait to the coast of Greenland, five thousand miles in five days, through the Arctic Ocean, from Charles Reade's "Love Me Little Love Me Long," and considered that that established the fact that the thing could be done; and he instanced Jonah's adventure as proof that a man could live in a whale's belly, and added that if a preacher could stand it three days a lawyer could surely stand it five!
With it mingled another sound, not so easy to determine, followed by a loud yell and the noise of running feet. Now, out in the street the cry sounded: "There he goes! Get him!" "Throw him down and hold him!" yelled another voice. "Mercy!" gasped Mrs. Prescott. "Don't be alarmed, my dear," smiled Mr. Prescott. "It's only the natural aftermath of Tom Reade's newest startler." Was it?
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