“Don’t you wish you may get it!” said I, and cut.
I told Jack Smith about it, and he was no end riled. I must say, I feel riled myself. It’s specially awkward, because the mater had our return tickets in her pocket; and I can’t get away from here. I wish you’d send me a sov., some of you. I’ll square up after vac.
Yours ever, Hugh à Pie.
P.S.—Here’s a go! Old Blunderbore’s gone at last! Smith says it was the steel armour inside him that did it. Serves him jolly well right!
From the Giants’ Bay Broadsheet, July 29th.
It is with feelings almost akin to consternation that we announce the sudden and critical illness of our esteemed fellow-citizen Giant Cormoran. The regret with which we make this announcement will be shared by all those visitors to this charming retreat who during the last months have come into contact with the amiable and accommodating gentleman.
Giant Cormoran is one of the old school of Englishmen whom we can ill afford to lose. Capacious in mind and body, with a large sense of humour, of strict personal integrity, and a hearty enjoyment of life, it is indeed sad to think of him at the present moment as lying on a bed of languishing, from which it is doubtful whether he will rise more. Very little news leaks out from the sick-chamber. Dr Smith is in regular attendance, and, according to a curt bulletin published an hour ago, reports his patient’s condition as exceedingly grave: “Giant Cormoran is in a state of collapse. There is a complete loss of nervous power. The patient has quite lost his head.”
We have no doubt that the melancholy death of his comrade Giant Blunderbore has seriously affected his nerves. Happily, his condition spares him the additional pang of knowing that Giant Galligantus is also on the sick list, with what it is feared is a mild attack of the prevailing epidemic. Later.
The following bulletins have just appeared: “The condition of Giant Cormoran remains unchanged.
“John Smith, M.D.”