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Updated: June 18, 2025
"Ill-gotten gains," says he, for some were the scraped savings of Geoffrey Waverton's tutor and some the pocket money of Alison's husband. But he was in no case to be delicate. Beef and bread had to be paid for, and, in fact, his scruples were little more than a joke. It is not to be concealed that in minor things Harry Boyce was not nicely honest.
In its dark aquiline style his face was finely moulded and imposing, and already it had a massive gravity. "A mighty grand fellow indeed," said Lady Dorchester once, "if only his mouth had grown since he was a baby." It has to be admitted that Mr. Waverton's mouth, a small, pretty feature, was oddly assorted with the haughty manner in which the rest of him was constructed.
Waverton's voice dropped. "Out with the cole, burn you." Mr. Waverton put a bag of money down on the table. The man snatched at it, tore it open, and began to count. "Is it done, Ned, I say?" Mr. Waverton cried. Ned showed some broken teeth. "I believe you, by God. He has it. He's dead meat. Two irons through and through his guts." Mr. Waverton flung back in his chair.
He covered many a mile of sticky clay in these autumn days, placidly vacant of mind, and afterwards accounted them the most comfortable of his life. Mr. Waverton's house was set upon a hill, at one end of a line of hills which now look over the wilderness of London, falling steeply thereto, and upon the other side, to northward and the open country, more gently.
"Begone, girl! Begone, I say. Od's life, leave us, do you hear?" says Mr. Waverton, in much agitation. "Bring us a noggin of rum, Sukey, darling," says the wet gentleman, dragging himself out of his sodden cloak. He flung it upon Mr. Waverton's. "Run, girl!" says Mr. Waverton, in a terrible voice. "Go, you fool."
Though you may not believe him, it is possible that the fellow was one of those in Waverton's pay. Harry made no doubt that his father was the offender. He went upstairs again and put a book in his pocket. In the courts between Drury Lane and Bow Street he did some ingenious marching and counter-marching whereby he was always confident and we cannot be quite sure the spy was shaken off.
"It is a perfect subject for your style," said Harry. Mr. Waverton smiled, and turned again to the window for productive meditation. A third man came lounging in, unheard by Mr. Waverton's rapt mind. He opened his eyes at the back which Mr. Waverton turned upon Harry and the space between them. "Why, Geoffrey, have you been very stupid this morning? And has schoolmaster stood you in the corner?
He took leave of his son with what the son thought superfluous affection. Half an hour afterwards he was in Mr. Waverton's room a place very precious. Everything in it and there were many things had an air of being strange. Mr. Waverton slept behind curtains of black and silver. His floor was covered with some stuff like scarlet velvet.
Waverton's petulant appeal, and an excited maid-servant bustled and blundered over clearing his table with pious invocations at each thunder-clap. She fretted Mr. Waverton, who admonished her and made her worse. Upon him and her there came a man cloaked from heel to eye, streaming rain from every angle. He shook a shower from his hat. "Hell! What a night," says he, breathless. "Save you, squire!"
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