it was not Bolton Byrne who mattered. While clubs and drawing-rooms twittered with the episode, and friends grew portentous in trying to look unconscious, and said “I don’t know what you mean,” with eyes beseeching you to speak if you knew more than they did, I had already discarded the whole affair, as I was sure Delane had. “It was the poney, and nothing but the poney,” I chuckled to myself, as pleased as if I had owed Mrs. Delane a grudge, and were exulting in her abasement; and still there ran through my mind the phrase which Alstrop said Delane had kept repeating: “It was the cruelty—it was the cruelty. I hate cruelty.”
I cannot re-create the scene for you. I do not know quite how it is, but the gaiety, the light-heartedness of that most jolly evening ooze from my heart as I write. I am not sufficient of an artist to sweep from my heart all the sad, irrecoverable things that my heart remembers. Especially, I cannot forget Ivan Heald, who now lies dead. (A year later he was to say to me, in that same studio: “This is a real good-bye, Gerald. It is not possible that 242both of us will survive this.”... And, of course, it is he who has gone. One feels mean in surviving, in enjoying the savour of life, when one’s best friends have departed.) ...
Realising that the sound of his own stumbling running feet and the intermittent flashes of his torch might well awaken some light sleeper in the house, the thief resolved on a daring move. This creature in front of him,—dog or bear or goat, or whatever it was,—was uncatchable. But by sending a bullet through it, he could bring the animal to a sudden and permanent stop.
"Yes," I said, more quietly. "That is Creach!"
Counterfeiter’s mold, knife blade, iron tomahawk, and stone idol found in vicinity of Cave-in-Rock, and a flint-lock pistol of the style used about 1800
purpose, for I came to the conclusion that my book itself may be regarded as a historical fact, and that the kindly and indulgent reader may even be glad to know what one, who has lived wholly in the science and taken an interest in everything in it old and new, thought from fifteen to eighteen years ago of the then reigning theories, representing as he did the view of the majority of his fellow-botanists.
“Not the Delane I know,” I murmured, embarrassed by these confidences.
No one who has not seen it performed in the open field, for men who, by their very calling, should have a more lively sense of the uncertainties of this life, can have any idea how grand it is in its simple surroundings. The altar is raised beneath an awning, and the service goes on before the kneeling men, without any of those distractions which meet one in a church; the Host is elevated to the roll of drums, the celebrant is half a soldier, and his acolytes cadets. Surely no more grateful service is ever offered to the God of Battles.
The Aga Kaga snarled.
Make that enticing motion, directly in front of a playful collie pup;—especially if he has something he doesn’t want you to take from him;—and watch the effect.
FOR THE NIGHT-FIRE (THE FEVER).
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