(no subject)
There were not supposed to be walls in the middle of a field. Tom was not the finest of scholars, no, not even one of the finest. Not even one of the finest in Somersetshire.
But he knew that there weren't supposed to be walls in the middle of fields as surely as there weren't to be rabbits in the house, a fact he had been assured of very firmly by Squire Allworthy, a number of the girls on the housekeeping staff, and Reverend Thwackum. Mr. Square, for his part, had wandered off into a philosophical quandry concerning the nature of man and beast which took him a number of hours and more than a few servings of fine roast with which he greased the wheels of his esteemable intellect.
That being said, there weren't supposed to be walls in the middle of a field and thus he was quite surprised to run into one while hunting for the pheasant he'd shot just a moment before. Looking around explains the wall, though not necessarily how he'd gotten into a tavern from the middle of Squire Allworthy's lands (for such a sober Christian gentleman as Squire Allworthy would certainly never host a tavern in the middle of nowhere). That being said, a tavern was where he was now and thus did it require exploring.
"George?"
For truly, in any tavern in Somersetshire, it was a good bet that Black George could be found in it and the man held a strong liking for him. He was largely alone in this affection for Tom, who for all his jocularity and charm was but a foundling and thus of the lowest of births, but it mattered little to George just as George's somewhat illegal activities mattered little to Tom.
"George? George Seagrim?"
But he knew that there weren't supposed to be walls in the middle of fields as surely as there weren't to be rabbits in the house, a fact he had been assured of very firmly by Squire Allworthy, a number of the girls on the housekeeping staff, and Reverend Thwackum. Mr. Square, for his part, had wandered off into a philosophical quandry concerning the nature of man and beast which took him a number of hours and more than a few servings of fine roast with which he greased the wheels of his esteemable intellect.
That being said, there weren't supposed to be walls in the middle of a field and thus he was quite surprised to run into one while hunting for the pheasant he'd shot just a moment before. Looking around explains the wall, though not necessarily how he'd gotten into a tavern from the middle of Squire Allworthy's lands (for such a sober Christian gentleman as Squire Allworthy would certainly never host a tavern in the middle of nowhere). That being said, a tavern was where he was now and thus did it require exploring.
"George?"
For truly, in any tavern in Somersetshire, it was a good bet that Black George could be found in it and the man held a strong liking for him. He was largely alone in this affection for Tom, who for all his jocularity and charm was but a foundling and thus of the lowest of births, but it mattered little to George just as George's somewhat illegal activities mattered little to Tom.
"George? George Seagrim?"