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The Lost Goats, 8
Jul. 8th, 2012 09:15 pm"...and it is our souls, our souls, yea verily I say unto you our souls...er, that we must constantly guard, from the penetrative shafts of Satan..."
Habbinge was looking restive, and Zander was rapidly running out of evangelical steam. He hoped Soren was finding something useful, somewhere about the house...something that would lead them to the missing Adhemar, or for preference (if it came to a choice) the missing coup files with which he had absconded from the homeship. In third place, lagging considerably behind the field, would be the whereabouts of Pervilious Snood, the owner of the house, whose irritatingly close-mouthed servant this Habbinge seemed to be.
Having thus somewhat pointedly refreshed the co-author's somewhat dilapidated memory as to the plot, he quickly wound up his oration. "And in short, sir, we would be pleased to welcome you to our services, which take place every Wednesday fortnight at eight-thirty of the clock, and a modest preliminary donation will secure you a seat with a cushion...Mr Snood."
The man shook his head. "My name, as I have told you, Brother, is Habbinge."
"That may indeed be true," Zander said, "but I put it to you that you are the only Pervilious Snood in this house...and that you have been for some time."
Habbinge stared at him for a long moment; then his face crumpled and he buried his face in his hands, sobbing uncontrollably.
At the same moment there was a complicated series of crashes from somewhere above, and Soren's voice raised in imprecation.
Zander, muttering an ancient curse in Twiffleboink, raced for the stairs, leaving the weeping man behind him.
Habbinge was looking restive, and Zander was rapidly running out of evangelical steam. He hoped Soren was finding something useful, somewhere about the house...something that would lead them to the missing Adhemar, or for preference (if it came to a choice) the missing coup files with which he had absconded from the homeship. In third place, lagging considerably behind the field, would be the whereabouts of Pervilious Snood, the owner of the house, whose irritatingly close-mouthed servant this Habbinge seemed to be.
Having thus somewhat pointedly refreshed the co-author's somewhat dilapidated memory as to the plot, he quickly wound up his oration. "And in short, sir, we would be pleased to welcome you to our services, which take place every Wednesday fortnight at eight-thirty of the clock, and a modest preliminary donation will secure you a seat with a cushion...Mr Snood."
The man shook his head. "My name, as I have told you, Brother, is Habbinge."
"That may indeed be true," Zander said, "but I put it to you that you are the only Pervilious Snood in this house...and that you have been for some time."
Habbinge stared at him for a long moment; then his face crumpled and he buried his face in his hands, sobbing uncontrollably.
At the same moment there was a complicated series of crashes from somewhere above, and Soren's voice raised in imprecation.
Zander, muttering an ancient curse in Twiffleboink, raced for the stairs, leaving the weeping man behind him.