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Uncle Jim turned up in the twilight.
Uncle Jim appeared with none of the disruptive violence Mr. Polly had
dreaded. He came quite softly. Mr. Polly was going down the lane
behind the church that led to the Potwell Inn after posting a letter
to the lime-juice people at the post-office. He was walking slowly,
after his habit, and thinking discursively. With a sudden tightening
of the muscles he became aware of a figure walking noiselessly beside
him. His first impression was of a face singularly broad above and
with a wide empty grin as its chief feature below, of a slouching body
and dragging feet.
"
Arf a mo'," said the figure, as if in response to his start, and
speaking in a hoarse whisper. "Arf a mo', mister. You the noo bloke at
the Potwell Inn?"
Mr. Polly felt evasive. "'Spose I am," he replied hoarsely, and
quickened his pace.
"Arf a mo'," said Uncle Jim, taking his arm. "We ain't doing a
(
sanguinary) Marathon. It ain't a (decorated) cinder track. I want a
word with you, mister. See?"
Mr. Polly wriggled his arm free and stopped. "What is it?" he asked,
and faced the terror.
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