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pending/885: Friend Profit with eBay (pending)

From: bug-gnats
Subject: pending/885: Friend Profit with eBay (pending)
Date: Sat, 10 Jan 2009 23:15:26 -0600 (CST) 
>Number:         885
>Category:       pending
>Synopsis:       Friend Profit with eBay
>Confidential:   no
>Severity:       serious
>Priority:       medium
>Responsible:    unassigned
>State:          open
>Class:          sw-bug
>Submitter-Id:   net
>Arrival-Date:   Sat Jan 10 23:15:26 -0600 2009
>Originator:     "SellersLounge" <address@hidden>
>Release:        
>Description:
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 <From my vantage ground I could scan the whole moor right away to the railway 
line and to the south of it where green fields took the place of heather. I 
have eyes like a hawk, but I could see nothing moving in the whole countryside. 
Then I looked east beyond the ridge and saw a new kind of landscape shallow 
green valleys with plentiful fir plantations and the faint lines of dust which 
spoke of highroads. Last of all I looked into the blue May sky, and there I saw 
that which set my pulses racing ...
 Low down in the south a monoplane was climbing into the heavens. I was as 
certain as if I had been told that that aeroplane was looking for me, and that 
it did not belong to the police. For an hour or two I watched it from a pit of 
heather. It flew low along the hill tops, and then in narrow circles over the 
valley up which I had come Then it seemed to change its mind, rose to a great 
height, and flew away back to the south.
 I did not like this espionage from the air, and I began to think less well of 
the countryside I had chosen for a refuge. These heather hills were no sort of 
cover if my enemies were in the sky, and I must find a different kind of 
sanctuary. I looked with more satisfaction to the green country beyond the 
ridge, for there I should find woods and stone houses.
 About six in the evening I came out of the moorland to a white ribbon of road 
which wound up the narrow vale of a lowland stream. As I followed it, fields 
gave place to bent, the glen became a plateau, and presently I had reached a 
kind of pass where a solitary house smoked in the twilight. The road swung over 
a bridge, and leaning on the parapet was a young man.
 He was smoking a long clay pipe and studying the water with spectacled eyes. 
In his left hand was a small book with a finger marking the place. Slowly he 
repeated 
 He jumped round as my step rung on the keystone, and I saw a pleasant sunburnt 
boyish face.
 Good evening to you, he said gravely. Its a fine night for the road.
 The smell of peat smoke and of some savoury roast floated to me from the house.
 Is that place an inn? I asked.
 At your service, he said politely. I am the landlord, Sir, and I hope you will 
stay the night, for to tell you the truth I have had no company for a week.
 I pulled myself up on the parapet of the bridge and filled my pipe. I began to 
detect an ally.
 Youre young to be an innkeeper, I said.
 My father died a year ago and left me the business. I live there with my 
grandmother. Its a slow job for a young man, and it wasnt my choice of 
profession.
 Which was?
 He actually blushed. I want to write books, he said.
 And what better chance could you ask? I cried. Man, Ive often thought that an 
innkeeper would make the best story teller in the world.
 Not now, he said eagerly. Maybe in the old days when you had pilgrims and 
ballad makers and highwaymen and mail coaches on the road. But not now. Nothing 
comes here but motor cars full of fat women, who stop for lunch, and a 
fisherman or two in the spring, and the shooting tenants in August. There is 
not much material to be got out of that. I want to see life, to travel the 
world, and write things like Kipling and Conrad. But the most Ive done yet is 
to get some verses printed in CHAMBERSS JOURNAL. I looked at the inn standing 
golden in the sunset against the brown hills.
 Ive knocked a bit about the world, and I wouldnt despise such a hermitage. 
Dyou think that adventure is found only in the tropics or among gentry in red 
shirts? Maybe youre rubbing shoulders with it at this moment.
 Thats what Kipling says, he said, his eyes brightening, and he quoted some 
verse about Romance bringing up the 9.15.
 Heres a true tale for you then, I cried, and a month from now you can make a 
novel out of it.
 Sitting on the bridge in the soft May gloaming I pitched him a lovely yarn. It 
was true in essentials, too, though I altered the minor details. I made out 
that I was a mining magnate from Kimberley, who had had a lot of trouble with 
I.D.B. and had shown up a gang. They had pursued me across the ocean, and had 
killed my best friend, and were now on my tracks.
 I told the story well, though I say it who shouldnt. I pictured a flight 
across the Kalahari to German Africa, the crackling, parching days, the 
wonderful blue velvet nights. I described an attack on my life on the voyage 
home, and I made a really horrid affair of the Portland Place murder. Youre 
looking for adventure, I cried; well, youve found it here. The devils are after 
me, and the police are after them. Its a race that I mean to win.
 By God! he whispered, drawing his breath in sharply, it is all pure Rider 
Haggard and Conan Doyle.
 You believe me, I said gratefully.
 Of course I do, and he held out his hand. I believe everything out of the 
common. The only thing to distrust is the normal.>
 
 
 
 
 <br>
 
 
       <a 
href="http://www.atlato.com/pages/runningclick.asp?handle=10817";>Starter Kit 
included</a>  Friend<br>
 
 
 <a href="http://www.atlato.com/pages/runningclick.asp?handle=10817";>
     <img src="http://www.atlato.com/imgs/ebarn/ebar.gif"; border="0"></a><br>
     <br>
     <a href="http://www.atlato.com/pages/runningout.asp?handle=10817";>
     <img src="http://www.atlato.com/imgs/ebarn/ebar1.gif"; border ="0">
 
 
 
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src="http://www.atlato.com/imgs/targaun.jpg"; border="0"></a><br>
 
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