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Updated: June 17, 2025
"Rot, I call it," said Trevor. "If you want to collect something, why don't you collect something worth having?" Just then Renford came back with the supplies. "Thanks," said Milton, "put 'em down. Does the billy boil, young Renford?" Renford asked for explanatory notes. "You're a bit of an ass at times, aren't you?" said Milton, kindly. "What I meant was, is the tea ready?
Rand-Brown got knocked out in the middle of the sixth." "What, do you mean really knocked out, or did he just chuck it?" "No. He was really knocked out. He was on the floor for quite a time. By Jove, you should have seen it. O'Hara was ripping in the sixth round. He was all over him." "Tell us about it," said Harvey, and Renford told.
"Then you've got milk." "Only a little." This apprehensively. "Bring it up. You can have what we leave." Disgusted retirement of Master Renford. "What I really came about," said Trevor again, "was business." "Colours?" inquired Milton, rummaging in the tin for biscuits with sugar on them. "Good brand of biscuit you keep, Trevor." "Yes. I think we might give Alexander and Parker their third."
With the majority of his contemporaries, it would only run to the portable kind that fold up. "Come and have some tea, Trevor," said Milton. "Thanks. If there's any going." "Heaps. Is there anything to eat, Renford?" The fag, appealed to on this important point, pondered darkly for a moment. "There was some cake," he said. "That's all right," interrupted Milton, cheerfully. "Scratch the cake.
The features of the owner of the arm he was still holding it were lit up for a moment. "Why, it's young Renford!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing down here?" Renford, however, continued to pursue the topic of his arm, and the effect that the vice-like grip of the Irishman had had upon it. "You've nearly broken it," he said, complainingly. "I'm sorry. I mistook you for somebody else.
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