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Updated: May 20, 2025
"Yes, sir," he replied, "for raspberries for breakfast, sir." "But not on this side of the cottage?" "Not on this side." "Then will you step out, Coates, keeping carefully to the paths, and proceed as far as the tool-shed? Particularly note if the beds have been disturbed between the hedge and the path, but don't make any marks yourself. You are looking for spoor, you understand?" "Spoor?
Janice rummaged about in the tool-shed for some minutes before she went upstairs to her room again. Marty crawled down, yawning, and started for the usual morning pail of water from the neighbor's well. Mr. Day was smoking on the bench outside of the kitchen door. The pork began to hiss in the pan. Suddenly, from upstairs, came a noisy pounding.
Conradin had long ago settled that she was an Anabaptist. He did not pretend to have the remotest knowledge as to what an Anabaptist was, but he privately hoped that it was dashing and not very respectable. Mrs. de Ropp was the ground plan on which he based and detested all respectability. After a while Conradin's absorption in the tool-shed began to attract the notice of his guardian.
These, by the bye, were placed almost horizontally to catch the eye of the passing mono-rail passengers above, and so served admirably to roof over a tool-shed and a mushroom-shed for Tom. All day and all night the fast cars from Brighton and Hastings went murmuring by overhead long, broad, comfortable-looking cars, that were brightly lit after dusk.
Peter gave himself up for lost, and shed big tears; but his sobs were overheard by some friendly Sparrows, who flew to him in great excitement, and implored him to exert himself. Mr. McGregor came up with a sieve, which he intended to pop upon the top of Peter; but Peter wriggled out just in time, leaving his jacket behind him, and rushed into the tool-shed, and jumped into a can.
I bounded out, to find him armed with a stick about six feet long, provided with a little fork at the end made by driving in a couple of nails and bending them out. "What is it?" I cried, excitedly. "Enemy. Get yourself a good stout stick." "Rake-handle do?" "Yes, capital." I ran to the tool-shed and came back directly, panting. "Now," I said, "what enemy is it an alligator?" "No.
"The cable leads up to the roof of the tool-shed!" "To the roof of the tool-shed!" I echoed incredulously. But Gatton did not heed my words, for: "What the devil have we here?" he continued. He was hauling something up from the flower-bed below the window, and now, turning to me, he held out ... a second telephone! "Why, Gatton!"
As we reached the tool-shed, strange noises arrested our steps; looking in, we perceived Harold, alone, rapt, absorbed, immersed in the special game of the moment. He was squatting in an old pig-trough that had been brought in to be tinkered; and as he rhapsodised, anon he waved a shovel over his head, anon dug it into the ground with the action of those who would urge Canadian canoes.
Peter's Orphanage; I feel sure it did while I browsed upon English fiction in my little wooden room beside the tool-shed at Dursley. It was near the surface from the time I began to visit Mr.
Look here, you go into the tool-shed at the Manor, first time you're that way, and as soon as you're inside the door, reach up your hand, and in the dark corner you'll find a bundle of our old peacock's moultings when he dropped his tail. You shall have 'em, Nat, and I hope I shall live to see you with 'em in your iron cap. My! you will look fine!"
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