Hence this childless
Randolph is affecting the course of several lives in the 19th
century to their grievous hurt.
But revenons a nos moutons--that is to say, to our lion and lamb--
the old brute of a Major and his long-suffering son.
While the table was being cleared, the Major took forty winks on the
sofa, and we two beat a retreat, lit up our pipes in the passage,
and were just turning out when the postman's double knock came, but
no showers of letters in the box. Derrick threw open the door, and
the man handed him a fat, stumpy-looking roll in a pink wrapper.
"I say!" he exclaimed, "PROOFS!"
And, in hot haste, he began tearing away the pink paper, till out
came the clean, folded bits of printing and the dirty and
dishevelled blue foolscap, the look of which I knew so well. It is
an odd feeling, that first seeing one's self in print, and I could
guess, even then, what a thrill shot through Derrick as he turned
over the pages. But he would not take them into the sitting-room,
no doubt dreading another diatribe against his profession; and we
solemnly played euchre, and patiently endured the Major's withering
sarcasms till ten o'clock sounded our happy release.
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