“They pay you money to keep away,” says Pliny. “Your Grandsire Cherrycoke, Lads, has ever kept his promise to remit to me, by way of certain Charter’d Companies, a sum precise to the farthing and punctual as the Moon,— to any address in the World, save one in Britain. Britain is his World, and he will persist, even now, in standing sham’d before it for certain Crimes of my distant Youth.” “Crimes!” exclaim the Boys together. “Why, so did wicked men declare ’em . . . before God, another Tale. . . .” “What’d they nail you on?” Uncle Ives wishes to know, “strictly professional interest, of
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