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Priscilla's Spies by George A. Birmingham
Priscilla's Spies by George A. Birmingham
The summer term ended in a blaze of glory for Frank Mannix. It was a generally accepted opinion in the school that his brilliant catch in the long field-a catch which disposed of the Uppingham captain-had been the decisive factor in winning the most important of matches. And the victory was particularly gratifying, for Haileybury had been defeated for five years previously.
There was no doubt at all that the sixty not out made by Mannix in the first innings rendered victory possible in the "cock house" match, and that his performance as a bowler, first change, in the second innings, secured the coveted trophy, a silver cup, for Edmonstone House. These feats were duly recorded by Mr. Dupré, the house master, in a neat speech which he made at a feast given in the classroom to celebrate the glory of the house. When the plates of the eleven were finally cleared of cherry tart and tumblers were refilled with the most innocuous claret cup, Mr. Dupré rose to his feet.
He chronicled the virtues and successes of the hero of the hour. The catch in the Uppingham match was touched on-a dangerous bat that Uppingham captain. The sixty not out in the house match had been rewarded with a presentation bat bearing a silver shield on the back of it. No boy in the house, so Mr. Dupré said, grudged the sixpence which had been stopped from his pocket money to pay for the bat. Then, passing to graver matters, Mr. Dupré spoke warmly of the tone of the house, that indefinable quality which in the eyes of a faithful schoolmaster is more precious than rubies. It was Mannix, prefect and member of the lower sixth, who more than any one else deserved credit for the fact that Edmonstone stood second to no house in the school in the matter of tone. The listening eleven, and the other prefects who, though not members of the victorious eleven, had been invited to the feast, cheered vigorously. They understood what tone meant though Mr. Dupré did not define it. They knew that it was mainly owing to the determined attitude of Mannix that young Latimer, who collected beetles and kept tame white mice, had been induced to wash himself properly and to use a clothes brush on the legs of his trousers. Latimer's appearance in the old days before Mannix took him in hand had lowered the tone of the house. Mannix' own appearance-though Mr. Dupré did not mention this-added the weight of example to his precepts. His taste in ties was acknowledged. No member of the school eleven knotted a crimson sash round his waist with more admired precision. Nor was the success of the hero confined to the playing fields and the dormitory. Mr. Dupré noted the fact that Mannix had added other laurels to the crown of the house's glory by winning the head master's prize for Greek iambics.
Mr. Dupré sat down. Mannix himself, blushing but pleasurably conscious that his honours were deserved, rose to his feet. As President of the Literary Society and a debater of formidable quality, he was well able to make a speech. He chose instead to sing a song. It was one, so he informed his audience, which Mr. Dupré had composed specially for the occasion. The tune indeed was old. Every one would recognise it at once and join in the chorus. The words, and he, Frank Mannix, hoped they would dwell in the memory of those who sang them, were Mr. Dupré's own. The eleven, the prefects and Mr. Dupré himself joined with uproarious tunefulness in a chorus which went tolerably trippingly to the air of "Here's to the Maiden of Bashful Fifteen."
"Here's to the House, Edmonstone House.
Floreat semper Edmonstone House."
Mannix trolled the words out in a clear tenor voice. One after another of the eleven, even Fenton, the slow bowler who had no ear for music, picked them up. The noise flowed through the doors and windows of the classroom. It reached the distant dormitory and stimulated small boys in pyjamas to thrills of envious excitement It was Mannix again, Mannix at his greatest and best, who half an hour later stood up in his place. With an air of authority which became him well, he raised his hand and stilled the babbling voices of the enthusiastic eleven. Then, pitching on a note which brought the tune well within the compass of even Fenton's growling bass, he began the school songs,
"Adsis musa canentibus
Laeta voce canentibus
Longos clara per annos
Haileyburia floreat."
House feeling, local patriotism to the tune of "The Maiden of Bashful Fifteen," was well enough. Behind it, deep in the swelling heart of Mannix, lay a wider thing, a kind of imperialism, a devotion to the school itself. Far across the dim quadrangle rang the words "Haileyburia Floreat." It was Mannix's greatest moment.
Three days later the school broke up. Excited farewells were said by boys eagerly pressing into the brakes which bore them to the Hertford station. Mannix, one of the earliest to depart, went off from the midst of a group of admirers. It was understood by his friends that he was to spend the summer fishing in the west of Ireland-salmon fishing. There would be grouse shooting too. Mannix had mentioned casually a salmon rod and a new gun. Happy Mannix!
The west of Ireland is a remote region, wild no doubt, half barbarous perhaps. Even Mr. Dupré, who knew almost all things knowable, admitted, as he shook hands with his favorite pupil, that he knew the west of Ireland only by repute. But Mannix might be relied on to sustain in those far regions the honour of the school. Small boys, born hero-worshippers, gathered in groups to await the brakes which should carry them to less splendid summer sports, and spoke to each other in confidence of the salmon which Mannix would catch and the multitude of grouse which would fall before the explosions of his gun.
The first few novels by James Owen Hannay, an Irish clergyman, who wrote under the name "George A. Birmingham," caused a national controversy and nearly imploded his career in the church when Catholics accused him of bigotry. Perhaps in response to this, Hannay's literary style changed to focus more on humor. The Red Hand of Ulster addresses the rift between Protestants and Catholics in Ireland with lighthearted humor and wit.
James Owen Hannay was an Irish clergyman who wrote dozens of novels, stories and plays under the pen name "George A. Birmingham." General John Regan is a sharp satirical play about a charming huckster who spearheads a campaign to honor a purported local hero by erecting a statue in his honor in the small Irish village of his birth. The drama hit too close to home when it was first staged in Ireland—locals rioted to protest the perceived slight against the Irish people.
This scarce antiquarian book is a facsimile reprint of the original. Due to its age, it may contain imperfections such as marks, notations, marginalia and flawed pages. Because we believe this work is culturally important, we have made it available as part of our commitment for protecting, preserving, and promoting the world's literature in affordable, high quality, modern editions that are true to the original work.
If desire were a blade, their first encounter left him bleeding in silence. He'd built a life on peril and pleasure, armor forged from recklessness, never imagining a woman could make him lower his guard. But even with the truth veiled in lies, he was already in too deep-entangled in the game, and captivated by the player.
Being second best is practically in my DNA. My sister got the love, the attention, the spotlight. And now, even her damn fiancé. Technically, Rhys Granger was my fiancé now-billionaire, devastatingly hot, and a walking Wall Street wet dream. My parents shoved me into the engagement after Catherine disappeared, and honestly? I didn't mind. I'd crushed on Rhys for years. This was my chance, right? My turn to be the chosen one? Wrong. One night, he slapped me. Over a mug. A stupid, chipped, ugly mug my sister gave him years ago. That's when it hit me-he didn't love me. He didn't even see me. I was just a warm-bodied placeholder for the woman he actually wanted. And apparently, I wasn't even worth as much as a glorified coffee cup. So I slapped him right back, dumped his ass, and prepared for disaster-my parents losing their minds, Rhys throwing a billionaire tantrum, his terrifying family plotting my untimely demise. Obviously, I needed alcohol. A lot of alcohol. Enter him. Tall, dangerous, unfairly hot. The kind of man who makes you want to sin just by existing. I'd met him only once before, and that night, he just happened to be at the same bar as my drunk, self-pitying self. So I did the only logical thing: I dragged him into a hotel room and ripped off his clothes. It was reckless. It was stupid. It was completely ill-advised. But it was also: Best. Sex. Of. My. Life. And, as it turned out, the best decision I'd ever made. Because my one-night stand isn't just some random guy. He's richer than Rhys, more powerful than my entire family, and definitely more dangerous than I should be playing with. And now, he's not letting me go.
For three quiet, patient years, Christina kept house, only to be coldly discarded by the man she once trusted. Instead, he paraded a new lover, making her the punchline of every town joke. Liberated, she honed her long-ignored gifts, astonishing the town with triumph after gleaming triumph. Upon discovering she'd been a treasure all along, her ex-husband's regret drove him to pursue her. "Honey, let's get back together!" With a cold smirk, Christina spat, "Fuck off." A silken-suited mogul slipped an arm around her waist. "She's married to me now. Guards, get him the hell out of here!"
In their three years of marriage, Chelsea had been a dutiful wife to Edmund. She used to think that her love and care would someday melt Edmund's cold heart, but she was wrong. Finally, she couldn't take the disappointment any longer and chose to end the marriage. Edmund had always thought that his wife was just boring and dull. So it was shocking when Chelsea suddenly threw divorce papers at his face in front of everyone at the Nelson Group's anniversary party. How humiliating! After that, everyone thought that the formerly-married couple would never see each other again, even Chelsea. Once again, she thought wrong. Sometime later, at an award ceremony, Chelsea went onstage to accept the award for best screenplay. Her ex-husband, Edmund, was the one presenting the award to her. As he handed her the trophy, he suddenly reached for her hand and pleaded humbly in front of the audience, "Chelsea, I'm sorry I didn't cherish you before. Could you please give me another chance?" Chelsea looked at him indifferently. "I'm sorry, Mr. Nelson. My only concern now is my business." Edmund's heart was shattered into a million pieces. "Chelsea, I really can't live without you." But his ex-wife just walked away. Wasn't it better for her to just concentrate on her career? Men would only distract her—especially her ex-husband.
Sophie became limp after an accident while saving an old grandma. Her parents, who resented her, laughed and said, "No one will marry a limping girl. Marry an old man and bring us the dowry money!" She thought her life was useless now. Until, the grandma's handsome grandson appeared with a shocking marriage proposal: "Marry me and I'll help you with your leg surgery!" She was stunned. "But I'm just a poor girl with a limp leg.why would you marry me?" His lips curled up into a smirk. "At least, I'll have a silly girl as my wife." Blinded by desperation and hope, Sophie agreed. Only later did she discover her new husband's true identity. Dominic William, London's most elusive billionaire, notorious for his icy heart and disdain for women. As Sophie navigates Dominic's world, she uncovers the secrets behind his frozen facade. But will their unconventional love overcome the darkness of his past and her own insecurities? Or will his secrets tear them apart?
Three years of marriage couldn't melt Theo's frozen heart. When an art gallery collapsed on Lena, he was off romancing another woman-lavishing her with a private jet. Three steel pins held Lena's shoulder together, but her heart remained broken. She filed for divorce and told everyone that he was impotent. Rising from the rubble, Lena blazed onto the design world's A‑list. She expected him to sail off with his true love-until Theo reappeared at her runway, pressing her against the wall. "Impotent, huh? Care to give it a try?"
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