H. de Vere Stacpoole and Margaret Stacpoole

“ Well, as I was saying, there he sat, talking away, and all these village chaps listening to him as if he was the Sultan of Turkey laying down the law. That's what pleased him. He likes being the middle of everything, and as the beer vent down the talk went up—till he was telling them he'd been at the battle of Waterloo.”
“Good Lord!”
“They didn't know no different,” said Mudd, “but it made me crawl to listen to him,”
“The bother is,” said Bobby, “that we are dealing not only with a young man, but with the sort of young man who was young forty years ago. That's our trouble, Mudd. ”

“ There is an arbor in the garden, tucked away in a corner, and there is an arbor close to the bowling green; there are several other arbors, for the hotel planner was an expert in his work, but these are the only two arbors that have to do with our story.
Bobby caught up with the girl before she had reached the green, and they walked together toward it, chatting as young people only can chat with life and gayety about nothing. They were astonishingly well matched in mind. Minds have colors, just like eyes. ”

“ He carried the hold-all to the fly and a porter followed with a basket-work portmanteau. When the luggage was stowed in, they got in and the fly moved off.
Julia was not in a passionate mood; no person is or ever has been, after a journey on the London and Wessex and South Coast Railway—unless it is a mood of passion against the railway. She seemed, indeed, disgruntled and critical, and a tone of complaint in her voice cheered up Bobby.
“I know, it's an awful old fly,” said he, “but it's the best they had. The hotel motor car is broken down or something.” ”

“ We can't calculate on what he'll do because we haven't the data, and another bother is that his foolishness seems to have increased by being bottled so long—like old beer. But he can't come to harm with the villagers; they're an innocent lot.”
“Are they?” said Mudd. “One of the chaps he was talking to was a gallows-looking chap. Horn's his name, and a poacher he is, I believe. Then there's the blacksmith and a squint-eyed chap that calls himself a butcher. ”