Amongst absurd names which have been recorded at Somerset House within recent years, we have the following, of which few people would like to be the bearers:—
“That’s it, who’d have thought it?” “Is it Maria?” “Bovril,” “Sardine,” “Ananias,” “Judas Iscariot,” and “Man Friday.”
THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH.
By ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO, Author of “Other People’s Stairs,” “Her Object in Life,” etc.
CHAPTER XXIII.
A STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE.
om hurried wildly through his boyish toilet and rushed into the dining-room, expecting to find the breakfast party round the table.
He pulled himself up with an astonished whistle, for the room stood empty, the table unspread, the fire unlit, while everything wore that indescribable air of desertion and neglect which rooms seem to bear each morning till human life has again passed through them with the new day.
“Something must have gone wrong with my ticker,” was Tom’s natural conclusion. But no, the watch was honestly at work, having now advanced to a quarter to nine. Besides, the daylight of the February morning assured him that it could not be much earlier.