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Updated: June 10, 2025
He turned slowly, went to the door and opened it, gave one glance at the motionless figure in the chair, and went out. He did not hear the voice that called his name, for the door had shut. Mr. Ridout and Mr. Manning were talking together in low tones at the head of the stairs. It was the lawyer who accosted Austen. "The old gentleman don't seem to be quite himself, Austen. Don't seem well.
Manning, the division superintendent. There was an instant of surprised silence on the part of the three, but the Honourable Hilary was the only one who remained expressionless. "If you don't mind, gentlemen," said the visitor, "I should like to talk to my father for a few minutes." "Why, certainly, Austen," Mr. Ridout replied, with an attempt at heartiness.
As already mentioned, the house was probably built by Surveyor-General Ridout; but it does not appear that either he or any member of his family ever resided there. The earliest occupant of whom I have been able to find any trace was Thomas Mercer Jones the gentleman, I presume, who was afterwards connected with the Canada Land Company.
He took off his boots, and threw one of them viciously, but with unerring aim, at the expiring light, and so went despondently to bed. "Our fair friend appears to be quite as susceptible to the remarks made upon his wild-wood acquaintance as to the wild-wood acquaintance herself." This was the observation of Ridout, as he and Boulton went the following morning to investigate the trap they had set.
The caverns he labelled respectively Appropriations, Railroad, Judiciary, and their guardians were unmistakably the Honourables Messrs. Bascom, Botcher, and Ridout. The greatest cavern of all he called "The Senate." If you listen, you can hear the music of the stream of bills as it is rising hopefully and flowing now: "Mr.
I know what I'm talkin' about, and I tell you that Ridout and Jake Botcher and Brush Bascom haven't any more notion of lettin' your bills out of committee than they have Gaylord's. Why? Because they've got orders not to." "You're making some serious charges, Mr. Tooting," said Mr. Crewe. "And what's more, I can prove 'em.
The senator's face wore a look of concern which could not possibly be misinterpreted. "How's Hilary?" were his first words. Mr. Ridout and Mr. Manning glanced at each other. "He's in Number Seven; you'd better take a look at him, Senator."
"It seems to me," he said mildly, taking his unlighted pipe from his lips, "that these are the worst matches I ever saw." Ridout had recovered some of his usual self-assurance. "It seems to me," he declared boldly, "that it's the worst match I ever heard of." "Worst or best," said Edward, with dogged resolution, "it will be necessary for you to speak of it with respect in my presence."
The Honourable Adam B. Hunt did not in the least have the appearance of a bolt from the blue. And then Mr. Crewe read his biography. Two things he shrewdly noted about that biography; it was placed, out of alphabetical order, fourth in the book, and it was longer than any other with one exception that of Mr. Ridout, the capital lawyer. Mr.
They were, in short, with few exceptions, the flower of the aristocracy of the little capital. Chief among them was Samuel Peters Jarvis, barrister, the slayer of poor young John Ridout, mentioned on a former page.
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