Sentence The Twohundredandninetysixth
And as they reached the forlorn figure, it was the compassionate WPC Isa Urquhart who recognised the retired priest, Father Mungo Macmenemy and the cousins gathered round him, offering him the shelter of their umbrellas and heedless of the hostile stares from the old men at the Club's windows: “forsooth,” cried Ginger Goldfish, “what brings you out here in such inclement weather, Father?” and the old man raised his rheumy eyes and recognised the girls: “ah, me darlins, sure now it gives an ould fella great spiritual sustenance to encounter such sweet souls, for life in the bathyscaphe ain't what it's cracked up to be” and it took no great effort to persuade him to accompany them up the High Street to the Market Square and into The Ship Inn – the regular drinking den for local worthies, rugby
players (easily identified by their upper arms, each the girth of an ordinary man's chest) and outcasts from the Hotels that preferred to cater to cleaner customers; and why, you may well ask, do the rugby buffters not drink at their own Club? the answer being that the bar there tends to be thronged with members and supporters and while the retired colonels and admirals and the odd Lord or two may cheer on the boys in yellow and black on the field of play, they don't want to be bumped into by the hulking brutes in the bar, any more than the old priest who'd been blackballed after his accusations had reached the ears of Supreme Court Judge, Lord Jock Linkumdoddie and he'd begun to investigate them; and Teri noticed a curious elderly patron whose eyes travelled between Father Macmenemy and herself, until he summoned the courage to ask: “is this an ecumenical diet, with a Presbyterian Minister in conclave with a defrocked Roman Priest, famous for his jeremiad moans and groans,” and
then he spotted Ginger Goldsmith arm in arm with Roxie Davidova and her twin sister, Trixie: “now don't tell me we're going to have a Coalition in the Scottish Parliament, with the leaders of the Primary Colours in cahoots?” which was when the insouciant WPCs Isa Urquhart and Gertie
Mountcastle put their hands under his oxters and Isa whispered her siren song in his ear: “would you rather go home to Mrs Ranfurly in one car, or two?” and Mr Ranfurly conceded that he would rather stay on his stool until closing time and would abide by convention and say no more about Religion or Politics till then, so Isa bought him a glass of malt and the girls left their old Music Teacher to his memories!
And as they reached the forlorn figure, it was the compassionate WPC Isa Urquhart who recognised the retired priest, Father Mungo Macmenemy and the cousins gathered round him, offering him the shelter of their umbrellas and heedless of the hostile stares from the old men at the Club's windows: “forsooth,” cried Ginger Goldfish, “what brings you out here in such inclement weather, Father?” and the old man raised his rheumy eyes and recognised the girls: “ah, me darlins, sure now it gives an ould fella great spiritual sustenance to encounter such sweet souls, for life in the bathyscaphe ain't what it's cracked up to be” and it took no great effort to persuade him to accompany them up the High Street to the Market Square and into The Ship Inn – the regular drinking den for local worthies, rugby players (easily identified by their upper arms, each the girth of an ordinary man's chest) and outcasts from the Hotels that preferred to cater to cleaner customers; and why, you may well ask, do the rugby buffters not drink at their own Club? the answer being that the bar there tends to be thronged with members and supporters and while the retired colonels and admirals and the odd Lord or two may cheer on the boys in yellow and black on the field of play, they don't want to be bumped into by the hulking brutes in the bar, any more than the old priest who'd been blackballed after his accusations had reached the ears of Supreme Court Judge, Lord Jock Linkumdoddie and he'd begun to investigate them; and Teri noticed a curious elderly patron whose eyes travelled between Father Macmenemy and herself, until he summoned the courage to ask: “is this an ecumenical diet, with a Presbyterian Minister in conclave with a defrocked Roman Priest, famous for his jeremiad moans and groans,” and 
then he spotted Ginger Goldsmith arm in arm with Roxie Davidova and her twin sister, Trixie: “now don't tell me we're going to have a Coalition in the Scottish Parliament, with the leaders of the Primary Colours in cahoots?” which was when the insouciant WPCs Isa Urquhart and Gertie Mountcastle put their hands under his oxters and Isa whispered her siren song in his ear: “would you rather go home to Mrs Ranfurly in one car, or two?” and Mr Ranfurly conceded that he would rather stay on his stool until closing time and would abide by convention and say no more about Religion or Politics till then, so Isa bought him a glass of malt and the girls left their old Music Teacher to his memories!
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