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datatime: 2022-09-27 09:54:05 Author:oKEPoLse

Ornally shook his head. 'Police stations are bad places to break into, this is well known.'

Omally was not listening, he was peeling a potato. Before him a monstrous heap of such peelings spoke most fluently of the restricted diet upon which the two were at present subsisting. 'It is spud for breakfast,' said he.

'Where you have been for the last two days, in my bloody allotment shed.'

There are many pleasures to be had in camping out. The old nights under canvas, the wind in your hair and fresh air in your lungs. An opportunity to get away from it all and commune with nature. Days in sylvan glades watching the sunshine dancing between the leaves and dazzling the eyes. Birdsong swelling at dawn to fill the ears. In harmony with the Arcadian Spirits of olden Earth. At night a time for reverie about the crackling campfire, the sweet smell of mossy peat and pine needles. Ah yes, that is the life.

Omally was not listening, he was peeling a potato. Before him a monstrous heap of such peelings spoke most fluently of the restricted diet upon which the two were at present subsisting. 'It is spud for breakfast,' said he.

Up at the bar Norman, who had quietly been reading a copy of the Brentford Mercury, said suddenly, 'Now there's a thing.'

Omally was not listening, he was peeling a potato. Before him a monstrous heap of such peelings spoke most fluently of the restricted diet upon which the two were at present subsisting. 'It is spud for breakfast,' said he.

'We?' said Pooley. 'Where do you get this "we" from? It was your wheelbarrow.'

The two men did not wait to see what might happen. They looked at each other, dropped the newspaper and fled.

'But there isn't a photograph of the wheelbarrow?'

Norman prodded at his paper. 'Wheelbarrow clue in double slaying.'

Ornally shook his head. 'Police stations are bad places to break into, this is well known.'

'We might simply make a clean breast of it,' said John.

Ornally shook his head. 'Police stations are bad places to break into, this is well known.'

'We might simply make a clean breast of it,' said John.

Up at the bar Norman, who had quietly been reading a copy of the Brentford Mercury, said suddenly, 'Now there's a thing.'

Up at the bar Norman, who had quietly been reading a copy of the Brentford Mercury, said suddenly, 'Now there's a thing.'

There are many pleasures to be had in camping out. The old nights under canvas, the wind in your hair and fresh air in your lungs. An opportunity to get away from it all and commune with nature. Days in sylvan glades watching the sunshine dancing between the leaves and dazzling the eyes. Birdsong swelling at dawn to fill the ears. In harmony with the Arcadian Spirits of olden Earth. At night a time for reverie about the crackling campfire, the sweet smell of mossy peat and pine needles. Ah yes, that is the life.

'We?' said Pooley. 'Where do you get this "we" from? It was your wheelbarrow.'

Up at the bar Norman, who had quietly been reading a copy of the Brentford Mercury, said suddenly, 'Now there's a thing.'

The two men did not wait to see what might happen. They looked at each other, dropped the newspaper and fled.

'I mean we might tell the police about what we saw; it might start an investigation into what is going on in the Mission.'

There are many pleasures to be had in camping out. The old nights under canvas, the wind in your hair and fresh air in your lungs. An opportunity to get away from it all and commune with nature. Days in sylvan glades watching the sunshine dancing between the leaves and dazzling the eyes. Birdsong swelling at dawn to fill the ears. In harmony with the Arcadian Spirits of olden Earth. At night a time for reverie about the crackling campfire, the sweet smell of mossy peat and pine needles. Ah yes, that is the life.

Norman's shop was closed for the half day and a few copies of the midweek Mercury still remained in the wire rack to the front door. Jim took one of these and rattled the letterbox in a perfect impression of a man dropping pennies into it. He and Omally thumbed through the pages.

There are many pleasures to be had in camping out. The old nights under canvas, the wind in your hair and fresh air in your lungs. An opportunity to get away from it all and commune with nature. Days in sylvan glades watching the sunshine dancing between the leaves and dazzling the eyes. Birdsong swelling at dawn to fill the ears. In harmony with the Arcadian Spirits of olden Earth. At night a time for reverie about the crackling campfire, the sweet smell of mossy peat and pine needles. Ah yes, that is the life.

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