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Clouston, J. Storer (Joseph Storer), 1870-1944

"The Man from the Clouds"

For instance, if Dr. Rendall himself was mixed up in the
affair, he would scarcely refrain from putting questions to find out all
about his guest; but I felt I need scarcely trouble my worthy uncle to
compose the replies before hand.
I remember that little dinner very vividly. As it chanced it was my one
glimpse of the old life of town and clubland and everything that goes
with evening dress, seen just for that brief evening between months of
mine-dodging and blizzard-facing in the North Sea followed by a hospital
bed, and the lonely tempestuous isle of Ransay. The white napery, the
gleam of glasses, the shaded electric lamps, the blazing fire, and the
lofty soft-carpeted room left an impression that stayed with me for
many a month to come. And in an easy chair after dinner, smoking the
special cigar that my uncle conscientiously recommended and sipping the
ancient cognac he advised, I should have been perfectly willing to
listen to him had he suggested pushing me into a soft shore billet and
letting some other poor devil grow a beard and hunt for spies in
northern gales instead.
But he was not that sort of uncle.
"It's the chance of your life, Roger," he said. "By Gad, I wish I were
young enough to take on the job myself. But you'll do the family credit
I'm sure--if you only remember that this business requires discretion and
caution quite as much as daring and resource!"
"Hear, hear!" said Jack.


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