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Arthur Train

Tutt and Mr. Tutt

Thoroughly delightful book about the goings-on in a law firm around 1920. Wryly humorous, at times full of wise discourse on the law and humanity, it is a far, far cry from Train’s other books. Not a twinge of his preacherly manner. A real precursor to Perry Mason, or Poirot, complete with its Miss Wiggins (Della Street and Miss Lemon), Willie the office boy, and Bonnie Doon, the gumshoe of the outfit. Copmprised of seven short stories, the first two being murder cases, in which Mr.Tutt gets the murderer off in such a way that we agree with him. Of course, in the second instance, the murderer was promptly shot himself. But in the first, he was definitely guilty. There are a whole series of these books which were quite popular in their day, and I can see why. The courts in those times seem to have been much more lax in their procedures than nowadays.
261 printed pages
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  • Ирина Осипенкоhas quoted4 years ago
    Now see here!” shouted Mr. Appleboy, coming out of the boathouse, where he was cleaning his morning's catch of perch, as his neighbor Mr. Tunnygate crashed through the hedge and cut across Appleboy's parched lawn to the beach. “See here, Tunnygate, I won't have you trespassing on my place! I've told you so at least a dozen times! Look at the hole you've made in that hedge, now! Why can't you stay in the path?”

    His ordinarily good-natured countenance was suffused with anger and perspiration. His irritation with Mr. Tunnygate had reached the point of explosion. Tunnygate was a thankless friend and he was a great cross to Mr. Appleboy. Aforetime the two had been intimate in the fraternal, taciturn intimacy characteristic of fat men, an attraction perhaps akin to that exerted for one another by celestial bodies of great mass, for it is a fact that stout people do gravitate toward one another-and hang or float in placid juxtaposition, perhaps merely as a physical result of their avoirdupois. So Appleboy and Tunnygate had swum into each other's spheres of influence, either blown by the dallying winds of chance or drawn by some mysterious animal magnetism, and, being both addicted to the delights of the soporific sport sanctified by Izaak Walton, had raised unto themselves portable temples upon the shores of Long Island Sound in that part of the geographical limits of the Greater City known as Throggs Neck.
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