““Hot codlins! Cherry-ripe!”... “Chairs to mind? Bring out your chairs!”... “Milk-o! Milk below!”Fletcher Belden groaned once, rolled over onto his stomach, taking his pillow with him, and buried his aching head beneath the soft goose down.“Cockles! Cockles an’ mussels, alive, alive-o!”... “Old clothes, mum? Old clothes to buy!”... “Cockles!”The pillow hit the floor with considerably less than satisfying force as Fletcher bounded from the bed and stormed to the brocade bellpull, yanking the inof...fensive signaling device so pitilessly that it ended by retaliating, rudely separating from its anchor to collapse in a mantle around the broad bare shoulders of its attacker.“Beck,” Fletcher roared in an abused tone, fighting his way free of six feet of tasseled bellpull and putting on the burgundy banyan that had found a home on a nearby chair back in order to cover his nakedness. “Beck!”The doorway to the upstairs hall of the Belden town house opened, admitting both the glaring light of day and a slight brown-haired man of much the same age as his three-and-thirty-year-old employer.“You bellowed, Fletch?MoreLessRead More Read Less
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