Airship Shape & Bristol Fashion Read Online Free PDF

stepped forward and embraced him warmly. “Always remember — you’ve got friends. Whenever you do feel ready to reveal your whereabouts to the World at large, just make sure that we know first.”
     
    He smiled. “You can count on that, Mrs. Willans.”
     
    “Jess…” she began, and then caught his sly wink. She grinned, and returned it.
     
    “That reminds me,” I blurted out. “You never did tell me your full name.”
     
    He bowed, very slightly. “Mr. Joshua Josiah Sheraton, sir. At your service.”
     
    I clasped his hand, very tightly. “God speed, Mr. Sheraton.”
     
    A final, genial smile. “Thank you kindly, Mr. Bowyer.”
     
    He turned smartly, and strode up the gangplank to his freedom.
     
    We watched until the receding lights of the ship faded into the night mists. I sighed, and settled myself on a bollard. Jessica stood beside me, rested a hand on my shoulder, and then produced a hip flask of very good brandy. We passed it back and forth, and toasted the Vapour rebels.
     
    At length, she drew back and smiled at me. “Rest assured, Dan, you’ll be paid in full. Thank you for everything. It’s been a fascinating few days. Definitely something for your memoirs.”
     
    “The Curious Case Of The Steam Spartacus?” I grinned. “I fear that the World isn’t ready for that, just yet.”
     
    “Authorship not to your taste?” Her eyes sparkled in the gaslight. “Well, here’s an idea… how about taking on some more emancipatory work? A change of career can do wonders for a fellow.”
     
    I wagged a stern finger. “Let’s at least discuss this properly, first. Preferably over another drink.”
     
    “I have an excellent cellar back at the house, Dan. If you’d care to join me?”
     
    “Jessica,” I said, rising to my feet, “There’s a good chance that this could prove to be the birth of a fruitfully philanthropic partnership.”
     

Brassworth
     
    - Christine Morgan -
     
     
     
     
     
    It’s at times, don’t you know, when I’m aboard an airscrew-driven factory, about to meet a captain of industry while pretending to be a peer of the realm, that even I have to stop and ask myself, “Reggie, old bean, how
do
you get into these predics?”
     
    Not aloud, obviously, as that might’ve drawn me a look or two, and I earned plenty of those already, on a daily basis.
     
    Besides, the answer’s simplicity itself.
     
    A chap’s got to be matey, doesn’t he? Got to rally round for the sake of his nearest and dearest, his good chums?
     
    As Moggy reminded me continuously, we’d been to
school
together, dash it all! If that didn’t bond a pair of blokes tighter than brothers, what did?
     
    Moggy being Cyril Moglington, of course. He’d turned up at my flat in a right state —
him
being in a right state, that is, not the flat — though to set the cards on the table, the table itself would first have to be cleared, if not unburied. Even in his agitated state, Moggy checked at the door to goggle about with some surprise.
     
    Conditions
chez
Reginald Wilmott had gone a smidge lax of late, I’d have to admit. I’d burned through not one but two valets recently, under experiences that had well put me off the idea. The results, sorry to say, were more than beginning to show.
     
    The first fellow … well, far be it from me to fault a man for having a fondness for spirits. But a chap has to draw the line when the hired help indulges that fondness at the master’s expense, let alone by nipping away at my private reserves. And to put the pip in the cherry on the iced-cream soda, attempting a cover-up with the watered-down was insult to injury. I mean to say! We Wilmotts being known for our discerning palates, he might as well have refilled the bottles with industrial gear-solvent.
     
    As for the second, well, the less said about a bloke who’d been not quite discreet about my indiscretions, the better. It was one thing, to be sure, to share an amusing or titillating