Showing posts with label John Fisher. Show all posts
Showing posts with label John Fisher. Show all posts

Thursday, 14 February 2013

Some impossible bet



Not that he wanted to pursue giggling housemaids, or get drunk, or go to sleep over the port, or any of the other unimagined things which the eccentric General might have done — he was the kind who would have wandered off to the kitchens and exchanged drinking reminiscences with the butler, or charmed the cook with recollections of exotic food eaten at the ends of the earth, or started a five-card school with the under footman, or lured Admiral Fisher into some impossible bet over the billiard table.


Mr American, pp.202-03, Pan Books, paperback edition 1982.



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Thursday, 7 February 2013

Entitled to bore



     ‘Well, for heaven’s sake don’t wake him,’ said his majesty. ‘The longer he sleeps the better I’ll like it.’
     Fisher smiled. ‘He’s a bit of a penance, but . . . well, when you’ve charged with the Light Brigade I suppose you’re entitled to bore a bit.’ To Mr Franklin he went on: ‘He was an aide to your President Grant, you know, in the Civil War; fought the Indians too, with that chap Custer. And served in the Indian Mutiny, Crimea, Zulu War, China, practically everywhere . . .’



Mr American, pp.189-90, Pan Books, paperback edition 1982.



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Wednesday, 6 February 2013

Believe him



‘What did he tell you?’
       ‘Well,’ said Mr Franklin, searching for something that would bear repetition, ‘he did mention that he had been a peace officer in an American cattle-town, but I wasn’t entirely sure whether I should believe him.’
      ‘Oh, that’s true enough,’ said Fisher. ‘Anything he tells you is liable to be true — and the unlikelier it sounds the more true it probably is. He’s been everywhere, done everything — amazing old bird.’


Mr American, p.189, Pan Books, paperback edition 1982.



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Wednesday, 30 January 2013

Jack-in-office



‘I was a deputy marshal there, in Abilene years ago, before you were born. What d’ye think of that? And it was a dam’ sight quieter,’ he went on, transferring his attention to the two talkers, ‘than some drawing rooms I could mention. Can’t even conduct a private conversation without some jack-in-office stopping your ears with drivel.’ He peered malevolently. ‘Fisher and young Churchill, eh? Oh, God help the nation.’


Mr American, pp.184-5, Pan Books, paperback edition 1982.


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