ISBN: 2940013740617

It was a little after seven on a summer morning, and William Potticarywas taking his accustomed way over the short down grass of the cliff-top.Beyond his elbow, two hundred feet below, la… Mehr…

It was a little after seven on a summer morning, and William Potticarywas taking his accustomed way over the short down grass of the cliff-top.Beyond his elbow, two hundred feet below, lay the Channel, very still andshining, like a milky opal. All around him hung the bright air, empty asyet of larks. In all the sunlit world no sound except for the screamingof some seagulls on the distant beach; no human activity except for thesmall lonely figure of Potticary himself, square and dark anduncompromising. A million dewdrops sparkling on the virgin grasssuggested a world new-come from its Creator's hand. Not to Potticary, ofcourse. What the dew suggested to Potticary was that the ground fog ofthe early hours had not begun to disperse until well after sunrise. Hissubconscious noted the fact and tucked it away, while his conscious minddebated whether, having raised an appetite for breakfast, he should turnat the Gap and go back to the Coastguard Station, or whether, in view ofthe fineness of the morning, he should walk into Westover for the morningpaper, and so hear about the latest murder two hours earlier than hewould otherwise. Of course, what with wireless, the edge was off themorning paper, as you might say. But it was an objective. War or peace, aman had to have an objective. You couldn't go into Westover just to lookat the front. And going back to breakfast with the paper under your armmade you feel fine, somehow. Yes, perhaps he would walk into the town.The pace of his black, square-toed boots quickened slightly, theirshining surface winking in the sunlight. Proper service, these bootswere. One might have thought that Potticary, having spent his best yearsin brushing his boots to order, would have asserted his individuality, orexpressed his personality, or otherwise shaken the dust of a meaninglessdiscipline off his feet by leaving the dust on his boots. But no,Potticary, poor fool, brushed his boots for love of it. He probably had aslave mentality, but had never read enough for it to worry him. As forexpressing one's personality, if you described the symptoms to him hewould, of course, recognize them. But not by name; In the Service theycall that contrariness.A seagull flashed suddenly above the cliff-top, and dropped screamingfrom sight to join its wheeling comrades below. A dreadful row thesegulls were making. Potticary moved over to the cliff edge to see whatjetsam the tide, now beginning to ebb, had left for them to quarrel over.The white line of the gently creaming surf was broken by a patch ofverdigris green. A bit of cloth. Baize, or something. Funny it shouldstay so bright a color after being in the water so--Potticary's blue eyes widened suddenly, his body becoming strangelystill. Then the square black boots began to run. _Thud, thud, thud,_on the thick turf, like a heart beating. The Gap was two hundred yardsaway, but Potticary's time would not have disgraced a track performer. Heclattered down the rough steps hewn in the chalk of the Gap, gasping;indignation welling through his excitement. That was what came of goinginto cold water before breakfast! Lunacy, so help him. Spoiling otherpeople's breakfasts, too. Schaefer's best, except where ribs broken. Notlikely to be ribs broken. Perhaps only a faint after all. Assure thepatient in a loud voice that he is safe. Her arms and legs were as brownas the sand. That was why he had thought the green thing a piece ofcloth. Lunacy, so help him. Who wanted cold water in the dawn unless theyhad to swim for it? He'd had to swim for it in his time. In that Red Seaport. Taking in a landing party to help the Arabs. Though why anyonewanted to help the lousy bastards--that was the time to swim. When youhad to. Orange juice and thin toast, too. No stamina. Lunacy, so helphim. Digital Content>E-books>Myst & Thrill>Mystery>Mystery, WDS Publishing Digital >16<

ISBN: 2940013740617

It was a little after seven on a summer morning, and William Potticarywas taking his accustomed way over the short down grass of the cliff-top.Beyond his elbow, two hundred feet below, la… Mehr…

It was a little after seven on a summer morning, and William Potticarywas taking his accustomed way over the short down grass of the cliff-top.Beyond his elbow, two hundred feet below, lay the Channel, very still andshining, like a milky opal. All around him hung the bright air, empty asyet of larks. In all the sunlit world no sound except for the screamingof some seagulls on the distant beach; no human activity except for thesmall lonely figure of Potticary himself, square and dark anduncompromising. A million dewdrops sparkling on the virgin grasssuggested a world new-come from its Creator's hand. Not to Potticary, ofcourse. What the dew suggested to Potticary was that the ground fog ofthe early hours had not begun to disperse until well after sunrise. Hissubconscious noted the fact and tucked it away, while his conscious minddebated whether, having raised an appetite for breakfast, he should turnat the Gap and go back to the Coastguard Station, or whether, in view ofthe fineness of the morning, he should walk into Westover for the morningpaper, and so hear about the latest murder two hours earlier than hewould otherwise. Of course, what with wireless, the edge was off themorning paper, as you might say. But it was an objective. War or peace, aman had to have an objective. You couldn't go into Westover just to lookat the front. And going back to breakfast with the paper under your armmade you feel fine, somehow. Yes, perhaps he would walk into the town.The pace of his black, square-toed boots quickened slightly, theirshining surface winking in the sunlight. Proper service, these bootswere. One might have thought that Potticary, having spent his best yearsin brushing his boots to order, would have asserted his individuality, orexpressed his personality, or otherwise shaken the dust of a meaninglessdiscipline off his feet by leaving the dust on his boots. But no,Potticary, poor fool, brushed his boots for love of it. He probably had aslave mentality, but had never read enough for it to worry him. As forexpressing one's personality, if you described the symptoms to him hewould, of course, recognize them. But not by name; In the Service theycall that contrariness.A seagull flashed suddenly above the cliff-top, and dropped screamingfrom sight to join its wheeling comrades below. A dreadful row thesegulls were making. Potticary moved over to the cliff edge to see whatjetsam the tide, now beginning to ebb, had left for them to quarrel over.The white line of the gently creaming surf was broken by a patch ofverdigris green. A bit of cloth. Baize, or something. Funny it shouldstay so bright a color after being in the water so--Potticary's blue eyes widened suddenly, his body becoming strangelystill. Then the square black boots began to run. _Thud, thud, thud,_on the thick turf, like a heart beating. The Gap was two hundred yardsaway, but Potticary's time would not have disgraced a track performer. Heclattered down the rough steps hewn in the chalk of the Gap, gasping;indignation welling through his excitement. That was what came of goinginto cold water before breakfast! Lunacy, so help him. Spoiling otherpeople's breakfasts, too. Schaefer's best, except where ribs broken. Notlikely to be ribs broken. Perhaps only a faint after all. Assure thepatient in a loud voice that he is safe. Her arms and legs were as brownas the sand. That was why he had thought the green thing a piece ofcloth. Lunacy, so help him. Who wanted cold water in the dawn unless theyhad to swim for it? He'd had to swim for it in his time. In that Red Seaport. Taking in a landing party to help the Arabs. Though why anyonewanted to help the lousy bastards--that was the time to swim. When youhad to. Orange juice and thin toast, too. No stamina. Lunacy, so helphim. Digital Content>E-books>Mystery>Mystery>Mystery, WDS Publishing Digital >16<

ISBN: 2940013740617

A Shilling for Candles A-Shilling-for-Candles~~Josephine-Tey Mystery>Mystery>Mystery NOOK Book (eBook), WDS Publishing