“A bad night’s work, my lady-love,” said the father gently. “But Mr. Tripconey here has saved Cannebrake.”
“And his lordship has saved me,” I cried.
“Then we should all be grateful,” said my lady, very calm.
I slept prodigious little that night, and blistered my hands so that I couldn’t play my flute for a week; but I was always sure for many a year of a hearty welcome at Cannebrake of the Starlings.
The Bronze Parrot
By R. Austin Freeman
Royal Army Medical Corps
The Reverend Deodatus Jawley had just sat down to the gate-legged table on which lunch was spread and had knocked his knee, according to his invariable custom, against the sharp corner of the seventh leg.
“I wish you would endeavour to be more careful, Mr. Jawley,” said the rector’s wife. “You nearly upset the mustard-pot, and these jars are exceedingly bad for the leg.”
“Oh, that’s of no consequence, Mrs. Bodley,” the curate replied cheerfully.
“I don’t agree with you at all,” was the stiff rejoinder.
“It doesn’t matter, you know, so long as the skin isn’t broken,” Mr. Jawley persisted with an ingratiating smile.