The prisoner may pass himself off for dead, may be actually
buried, and then rescued from the grave just in time by the pre-warned
and ever-ready Araminta. There are many legitimate ways of escape, but
the essential thing is that all messages to the prisoner from his
Araminta outside should be conveyed in his loaf of bread. To whisper
them in Irish is too easy, too unromantic.
But in any case I am on the side of the prisoner. I always am.
Geographical Research
The other day I met a man who didn't know where Tripoli was. Tripoli
happened to come into the conversation, and he was evidently at a
loss. "Let's see," he said. "Tripoli is just down by the--er--you
know. What's the name of that place?" "That's right," I answered,
"just opposite Thingumabob. I could show you in a minute on the map.
It's near--what do they call it?" At this moment the train stopped,
and I got out and went straight home to look at my atlas.
Of course I really knew exactly where Tripoli was.
Pages:
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75