Miss Allie Astell’s (my erstwhile biographer and sometime expedition organiser) mysterious disappearance and the need to cope with the ensuing hullabaloo had delayed my departure to the grand ol’ USA. Receiving the delightful news that my dear chum is now safe and sound and with these unseemly shenanigans hopefully at an end, I apply a liberal dollop of my patent pomade and with a spring in my step, set off once again in search of my fortune. It is with no little excitement that I board the sleeping car of the Chicago and Northwestern railroad bound for Deadwood, South Dakota. Yee Hah! Fawcett.
So soon after Master Robert Hine and his cohort of chortling chums noble attempt to affect the rescue of Miss Allie Astell from a white slavers encampment north of the ancient site of Zawyet-el-Aryan were thwarted. Her evil captors obviously thinking the game was up released their prize and subsequently Miss Allie Astell was found slightly the worse for wear wandering in the shifting sands of the Southern Sahara. Rumour that the poor gal was to be heard singing Edelweiss at the top of her voice has yet to be confirmed. Toodle Pip. Fawcett.
At the risk of seeming unconcerned with solving my dear friend Miss Allie Astell’s tribal predicament, I have left the problem in the safe hands of the Foreign Office who themselves are courting the assistance of the fearsome nomadic blue be-robed Tuareg. For the present I can do no more, and simply must attend to the pressing matter in hand, namely the adequate preparation for my forthcoming adventure. Carry on. Fawcett.
Hurrah, there has been another sighting of Miss Allie Astell my errant companion at a caravanserai deep in the desert! However I fear we may be too late, for she was seen at the oasis edge, swaying to the savage rhythm of the distant drums. Ye Gads! Fawcett.
This very morning she was spotted astride a Bedouin’s dromedary heading out into the shifting sands of the southern Sahara Desert. Good God whatever next? Fawcett.
Dire news! It appears that Miss Allie Astell, the most stalwart, prim, proper and protagonist of all things just so, may well have gone native. The poor gal hasn’t been quite the same since that sojourn at Glastonbury. I of course blame myself. Oh lack a day. Fawcett.
With lots to do and very little time in which to do it, and sadly finding myself lacking the be-calming efficiency of Miss Allie Astell’s organisational skills, I simply moustache. What? Fawcett.
