"I don't want to work here. I tell you honestly, I don't want to work. When I return, I'll tell my friends that I've located the place in which I don't want to work; and all the gold bugs and pile-drivers will come round and want the receipt. I'll just tell them it's the Cornish air, and Cornish skies, and Cornish cream, and Cornish everything—the place where Old Nick built churches, just for want of something to do. That'll be a new sensation in the States for men with piles wanting an extension of time to look around before the next-of-kin pay the death duties.
"No, gentlemen, no thanks, if you please. These are the honest opinions of John B. Bellamy, citizen, U.S.A., and if you want a man to run the show, why, that address will find him."
Paddington once more.
"Evening papers—Extra Specials. Autumn Sessions. Panic on Stock Exchange. Revolutions. Anarchies!"
"Great Scott! Where on earth have we been living?" said Guy, excitedly.
"Hi! Boy! Papers! All of'm?"
