Explore "The Great Skene Mystery" by Bernard Capes on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
When I got back to my woodland hermitage -- which I regained, as I had foreseen I should, without my absence from the house having excited any comment -- I put up, in a little frenzy of mockery, an altar to the God of Luck. I drew a picture of a clergyman (Mr Pugsley it was meant for) christening a baby out of a pint pot, and turning to demand of a villainous old pew-opener (my imaginary presentment of Mother Carey), who stood beside, the infant's proposed title. The question, within a scroll, issued from his lips, and the answer -- "Richard Gaskett, godson of the publican of that name" -- from hers. I had bought in Footover, on my way back, a bottle of gin and one of peppermint essence; and these I clasped round with a single label bearing the motto "In vino veritas," and stood them on a little table underneath the drawing, which I nailed to the wall.
No one but Miss Christmas -- barring my stepfather on a rare occasion -- had ever invaded, or was like to invade, my snuggery; and, if anyone did, I was reckless about consequences. Then I sat down to consider, over a pipe, my present position and gains.