Spite of the morning dew he had pursued them, well
pleased with himself, and doubtful whom to conquer with his charms.
"O Mr. Biggles," continued Marjorie, "that horrid man got me a naughty,
cruel shaking, and he's sent my dear Eugene away never to come back any
more. I know, because I went into aunty's room when I got up; and she
told me."
"It's too bad, Marjorie. Who mide that little song on Mr. Lamb?"
"You'll never tell?"
"No."
"'Pon your honour?"
"'Pon my honour."
"It was papa, you old goosey."
"Not Mr. Coristine?"
"No, of course not."
"My I sy that it wasn't Mr. Coristine?"
"O yes, don't let them think any bad things about Eugene, poor boy."
"Good morning, Miss Carmichael," said Mr. Bigglethorpe, or rather he
bawled it; "will you come here a minute, please?"
Miss Carmichael gladly skipped down, leaving her companion a prey to the
gentleman of the morocco slippers.
"I want to clear our friend, Mr. Coristine, of a suspicion which you may
not have shired," said the fisherman. "He didn't mike that little piece
of poetry on Mr. Lamb that Marjorie and the other children sang
yesterday morning.
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