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James Crawley’s Pipe Is Put Out

           

           "Ibegyourpardon,sir,"saysBowls,advancingwithaprofoundbow;"what‘otel,sir,shallThomasfetchtheluggagefrom?"

           "O,dam,"saidyoungJames,startingup,asifinsomealarm,"I’llgo."

           "What!"saidMissCrawley.

           "TheTomCribb’sArms,"saidJames,blushingdeeply.

           MissCrawleyburstoutlaughingatthistitle.Mr.Bowlsgaveoneabruptguffaw,asaconfidentialservantofthefamily,butchokedtherestofthevolley;thediplomatistonlysmiled.

           "I—Ididn’tknowanybetter,"saidJames,lookingdown."I’veneverbeenherebefore;itwasthecoachmantoldme."Theyoungstory-teller!Thefactis,thatontheSouthamptoncoach,thedayprevious,JamesCrawleyhadmettheTutburyPet,whowascomingtoBrightontomakeamatchwiththeRottingdeanFibber;andenchantedbythePet’sconversation,hadpassedtheeveningincompanywiththatscientificmanandhisfriends,attheinninquestion.

           "I—I’dbestgoandsettlethescore,"Jamescontinued."Couldn’tthinkofaskingyou,Ma’am,"headded,generously.

           Thisdelicacymadehisauntlaughthemore.

           "Goandsettlethebill,Bowls,"shesaid,withawaveofherhand,"andbringittome."

           Poorlady,shedidnotknowwhatshehaddone!"Therethere’salittledawg,"saidJames,lookingfrightfullyguilty."I’dbestgoforhim.Hebitesfootmen’scalves.

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