In India, we've always been vulnerable to Europeans ... Evie had only been with us a matter of weeks, and already I was being sucked into a grotesque mimicry of European literature. (We had done Cyrano, in a simplified version, at school; I had also read the Classics Illustrated comic book.) Perhaps it would be fair to say that Europe repeats itself, in India, as farce ... Evie was American. Same thing.
'But hey, man, that's no-fair man, why don't you do it yourself?'
'Listen, Sonny,' I pleaded, 'you're my friend, right?'
'Yeah, but you didn't even help ...'
'That was my sister, Sonny, so how could I?'
'No, so you have to do your own dirty ...'
'Hey, Sonny, man, think. Think only. These girls need careful handling, man.
Look how the Monkey flies off the handle! You've got the experience, yaar, you've been through it. You'll know how to go gently this time. What do I know, man? Maybe she doesn't like me even. You want me to have my clothes torn off, too? That would make you feel better?'
And innocent, good-natured Sonny, '... Well, no ...'
'Okay, then. You go. Sing my praises a little. Say never mind about my nose.
Character is what counts. You can do that?'
'... Weeeelll ... I ... okay, but you talk to your sis also, yah?'
Til talk, Sonny. What can I promise? You know what she's like. But I'll talk to her for sure.'
You can lay your strategies as carefully as you like, but women will undo them at a stroke. For every victorious election campaign, there are twice as many that fail ... from the verandah of Buckingham Villa, through the slats of the chick-blind, I spied on Sonny Ibrahim as he canvassed my chosen constituency ...
and heard the voice of the electorate, the rising nasality of Evie Burns, splitting the air with scorn: 'Who? Him? Whynt'cha tell him to jus' go blow his nose? That sniffer? He can't even ride a bike!'
Which was true.
And there was worse to come; because now (although a chick-blind divided the scene into narrow slits) did I not see the expression on Evie's face begin to soften and change? - did Evie's hand (sliced lengthways by the chick) not reach out towards my electoral agent? -and weren't those Evie's fingers (the nails bitten down to the quick) touching Sonny's temple-hollows, the fingertips getting covered in dribbled Vaseline? - and did Evie say or did she not: 'Now you, Pr instance: you're cute'? Let me sadly affirm that I did; it did; they were; she did.
Saleem Sinai loves Evie Burns; Evie loves Sonny Ibrahim; Sonny is potty about the Brass Monkey; but what does the Monkey say?
'Don't make me sick, Allah,' my sister said when I tried - rather nobly, considering how he'd failed me - to argue Sonny's case. The voters had given the thumijs-down to us both.
I wasn't giving in just yet. The siren temptations of Evie Burns - who never cared about me, I'm bound to admit - led me inexorably towards my fall. (But I hold nothing against her; because my fall led to a rise.)
Privately, in my clocktower, I took time off my trans-subcontinental rambles to consider the wooing of my freckled Eve. 'Forget middlemen,' I advised myself, 'You'll have to do this personally.' Finally, I formed my scheme: I would have to share her interests, to make her passions mine ... guns have never appealed to me. I resolved to learn how to ride a bike.
Monday, November 26, 2012
When I am too sad and too skinny to keep keeping
When I am too sad and too skinny to keep keeping, when I am a tiny thing against so many bricks, then it is I look at trees. When there is nothing left to look at on this street. Four who grew despite concrete. Four who reach and do not forget to reach. Four whose only reason is to be and be.
他们是唯一懂得我的。我是唯一懂得它们的。四棵细瘦的树儿长着细细的脖颈和尖尖的肘骨，像我的一样。不属于这里但到了这里的四个。市政栽下充数的四棵残次品。从我的房间里我们可以听到它们的声音，可蕾妮只是睡觉，不能领略这些。
他们的力量是个秘密。他们在地下展开凶猛的根系。他们向上生长也向下生长，用它们须发样的脚趾攥紧泥土，用它们猛烈的牙齿噬咬天空，怒气从不懈怠。这就是它们坚持的方式。
假如有一棵忘记了他存在的理由，他们就全都会像玻璃瓶里的郁金香一样耷拉下来，手挽着手。坚持，坚持，坚持。树儿在我睡着的时候说。他们教会人。
当我太悲伤太瘦弱无法坚持再坚持的时候，当我如此渺小却要对抗这么多砖块的时候，我就会看着树儿。当街上没有别的东西可看的时候。不畏水泥仍在生长的四棵。伸展伸展从不忘记伸展的四棵。唯一的理由是存在存在的四棵。
Chapter 4 Cathy Queen of Cats
Cathy who is queen of cats has cats and cats and cats. Baby cats, big cats, skinny cats, sick cats. Cats asleep like little donuts. Cats on top of the refrigerator. Cats taking a walk on the dinner table. Her house is like cat heaven.
You want a friend, she says. Okay, I'll be your friend. But only till next Tuesday. That's when we move away. Got to. Then as if she forgot I just moved in, she says the neighborhood is getting bad.
Cathy's father will have to fly to France one day and find her great great distant grand cousin on her father's side and inherit the family house. How do I know this is so? She told me so. In the meantime they'll just have to move a little farther north from Mango Street, a little farther away every time people like us keep moving in.
她说，我是法兰西皇后的远远远房表亲。她住在楼上，那边，那个“捉小孩的人”乔的隔壁。离他远点，她告诉我说，他很危险。街角那家小店是宾尼和布兰卡的。他们还蛮好，可只是靠在糖果柜台上时才对你好。两个像老鼠一样邋遢的女孩住在街对面。你不会想去认识她们的。埃德娜是你家隔壁房子的主人。她过去有幢大得像鲸鱼的房子，可她弟弟把它卖了。他们的妈妈说，别，别呀，千万别卖。我不会的。可后来她一闭眼，他就卖了它。阿莉西娅自从上了大学就傲气起来了。她过去挺喜欢我，可现在不了。
猫皇后凯茜养了好多好多好多猫。猫宝宝、大个猫、瘦猫、病猫。睡姿像个面包圈的猫。爬到冰箱顶上的猫。在餐桌上散步的猫。她的房子就像个猫天堂。
你想要个朋友。她说，好的，我会做你的朋友，可只能做到下星期二，那时我们就得搬走了，不得不搬了。然后，她似乎忘了我才搬进来，说，这个社区的人越来越杂了。
凯茜的父亲有一天会要飞到法国去，找到远方的、她父亲那边的远远远房表亲，去继承家宅。我是怎么知道这些的呢？是她告诉我的。同时，他们要从芒果街向北面搬迁，离开这里一点路，在每次像我们这样的人家不断搬进来的时候。
Chapter 5 A house of my own
Not a flat. Not an apartment in back. Not a man's house. Not a daddy's. A house all my own. With my porch and my pillow, my pretty purple petunias. My books and my stories. My two shoes waiting beside the bed. Nobody to shake a stick at. Nobody's garbage to pick up after. Only a house quiet as snow, a space for myself to go, clean as paper before the poem.
不是小公寓.也不是阴面的大公寓.也不是哪个男人的房子.也不是爸爸的房子.是完完全全属于我自己的.那里有我的前廊我的枕头,我漂亮的紫色矮牵牛.我的书和我的故事.我的两只等在床边的鞋.不用和谁去作对.没有别人扔下的垃圾要拾起. 只是一所寂静如雪的房子,一个自己归去的空间,洁净如同诗笔未落的纸.
有时候,在非常牵强的情况下flat是指一整套公寓,然后将这些公寓分成一间间或者一套套的,分租出去的那种.apartment是指一整套公寓。
Chapter 7 The House on Mango Street 1
We didn't always live on Mango Street. Before that we lived on Loomis on the third floor, and before that we lived on Keeler. Before Keeler it was Paulina, and before that I can't remember. But what I remember most is moving a lot. Each time it seemed there'd be one more of us. By the time we got to Mango Street we were six —— Mama, Papa, Carlos, Kiki, my sister Nenny and me. The house on Mango Street is ours, and we don't have to pay rent to anybody, or share the yard with the people down stairs, or be careful not to make too much noise, and there isn't a landlord banging on the ceiling with a broom. But even so, it's not the house we'd thought we'd get. We had to leave the flat on Loomis quick. The water pipes broke and the landlord wouldn't fix them because the house was too old. We had to leave fast. We were using the washroom next door and carrying water over in empty milk gallons. That's why Mama and Papa looked for a house, and that's why we moved into the house on Mango Street, far away, on the other side of town.
他们是唯一懂得我的。我是唯一懂得它们的。四棵细瘦的树儿长着细细的脖颈和尖尖的肘骨，像我的一样。不属于这里但到了这里的四个。市政栽下充数的四棵残次品。从我的房间里我们可以听到它们的声音，可蕾妮只是睡觉，不能领略这些。
他们的力量是个秘密。他们在地下展开凶猛的根系。他们向上生长也向下生长，用它们须发样的脚趾攥紧泥土，用它们猛烈的牙齿噬咬天空，怒气从不懈怠。这就是它们坚持的方式。
假如有一棵忘记了他存在的理由，他们就全都会像玻璃瓶里的郁金香一样耷拉下来，手挽着手。坚持，坚持，坚持。树儿在我睡着的时候说。他们教会人。
当我太悲伤太瘦弱无法坚持再坚持的时候，当我如此渺小却要对抗这么多砖块的时候，我就会看着树儿。当街上没有别的东西可看的时候。不畏水泥仍在生长的四棵。伸展伸展从不忘记伸展的四棵。唯一的理由是存在存在的四棵。
Chapter 4 Cathy Queen of Cats
Cathy who is queen of cats has cats and cats and cats. Baby cats, big cats, skinny cats, sick cats. Cats asleep like little donuts. Cats on top of the refrigerator. Cats taking a walk on the dinner table. Her house is like cat heaven.
You want a friend, she says. Okay, I'll be your friend. But only till next Tuesday. That's when we move away. Got to. Then as if she forgot I just moved in, she says the neighborhood is getting bad.
Cathy's father will have to fly to France one day and find her great great distant grand cousin on her father's side and inherit the family house. How do I know this is so? She told me so. In the meantime they'll just have to move a little farther north from Mango Street, a little farther away every time people like us keep moving in.
她说，我是法兰西皇后的远远远房表亲。她住在楼上，那边，那个“捉小孩的人”乔的隔壁。离他远点，她告诉我说，他很危险。街角那家小店是宾尼和布兰卡的。他们还蛮好，可只是靠在糖果柜台上时才对你好。两个像老鼠一样邋遢的女孩住在街对面。你不会想去认识她们的。埃德娜是你家隔壁房子的主人。她过去有幢大得像鲸鱼的房子，可她弟弟把它卖了。他们的妈妈说，别，别呀，千万别卖。我不会的。可后来她一闭眼，他就卖了它。阿莉西娅自从上了大学就傲气起来了。她过去挺喜欢我，可现在不了。
猫皇后凯茜养了好多好多好多猫。猫宝宝、大个猫、瘦猫、病猫。睡姿像个面包圈的猫。爬到冰箱顶上的猫。在餐桌上散步的猫。她的房子就像个猫天堂。
你想要个朋友。她说，好的，我会做你的朋友，可只能做到下星期二，那时我们就得搬走了，不得不搬了。然后，她似乎忘了我才搬进来，说，这个社区的人越来越杂了。
凯茜的父亲有一天会要飞到法国去，找到远方的、她父亲那边的远远远房表亲，去继承家宅。我是怎么知道这些的呢？是她告诉我的。同时，他们要从芒果街向北面搬迁，离开这里一点路，在每次像我们这样的人家不断搬进来的时候。
Chapter 5 A house of my own
Not a flat. Not an apartment in back. Not a man's house. Not a daddy's. A house all my own. With my porch and my pillow, my pretty purple petunias. My books and my stories. My two shoes waiting beside the bed. Nobody to shake a stick at. Nobody's garbage to pick up after. Only a house quiet as snow, a space for myself to go, clean as paper before the poem.
不是小公寓.也不是阴面的大公寓.也不是哪个男人的房子.也不是爸爸的房子.是完完全全属于我自己的.那里有我的前廊我的枕头,我漂亮的紫色矮牵牛.我的书和我的故事.我的两只等在床边的鞋.不用和谁去作对.没有别人扔下的垃圾要拾起. 只是一所寂静如雪的房子,一个自己归去的空间,洁净如同诗笔未落的纸.
有时候,在非常牵强的情况下flat是指一整套公寓,然后将这些公寓分成一间间或者一套套的,分租出去的那种.apartment是指一整套公寓。
Chapter 7 The House on Mango Street 1
We didn't always live on Mango Street. Before that we lived on Loomis on the third floor, and before that we lived on Keeler. Before Keeler it was Paulina, and before that I can't remember. But what I remember most is moving a lot. Each time it seemed there'd be one more of us. By the time we got to Mango Street we were six —— Mama, Papa, Carlos, Kiki, my sister Nenny and me. The house on Mango Street is ours, and we don't have to pay rent to anybody, or share the yard with the people down stairs, or be careful not to make too much noise, and there isn't a landlord banging on the ceiling with a broom. But even so, it's not the house we'd thought we'd get. We had to leave the flat on Loomis quick. The water pipes broke and the landlord wouldn't fix them because the house was too old. We had to leave fast. We were using the washroom next door and carrying water over in empty milk gallons. That's why Mama and Papa looked for a house, and that's why we moved into the house on Mango Street, far away, on the other side of town.
On the third day
On the third day, Therese, rapidly and with a sort of feverish decision, threw the sheet from her, and seated herself up in bed. She thrust back her hair from her temples, and for a moment remained with her hands to her forehead and her eyes fixed, seeming still to reflect. Then, she sprang to the carpet. Her limbs were shivering, and red with fever; large livid patches marbled her skin, which had become wrinkled in places as if she had lost flesh. She had grown older.
Suzanne, on entering the room, was struck with surprise to find her up. In a placid, drawling tone, she advised her to go to bed again, and continue resting. Therese paid no heed to her, but sought her clothes and put them on with hurried, trembling gestures. When she was dressed, she went and looked at herself in a glass, rubbing her eyes, and passing her hands over her countenance, as if to efface something. Then, without pronouncing a syllable, she quickly crossed the dining-room and entered the apartment occupied by Madame Raquin.
She caught the old mercer in a moment of doltish calm. When Therese appeared, she turned her head following the movements of the young widow with her eyes, while the latter came and stood before her, mute and oppressed. The two women contemplated one another for some seconds, the niece with increasing anxiety, the aunt with painful efforts of memory. Madame Raquin, at last remembering, stretched out her trembling arms, and, taking Therese by the neck, exclaimed:
"My poor child, my poor Camille!"
She wept, and her tears dried on the burning skin of the young widow, who concealed her own dry eyes in the folds of the sheet. Therese remained bending down, allowing the old mother to exhaust her outburst of grief. She had dreaded this first interview ever since the murder; and had kept in bed to delay it, to reflect at ease on the terrible part she had to play.
When she perceived Madame Raquin more calm, she busied herself about her, advising her to rise, and go down to the shop. The old mercer had almost fallen into dotage. The abrupt apparition of her niece had brought about a favourable crisis that had just restored her memory, and the consciousness of things and beings around her. She thanked Suzanne for her attention. Although weakened, she talked, and had ceased wandering, but she spoke in a voice so full of sadness that at moments she was half choked. She watched the movements of Therese with sudden fits of tears; and would then call her to the bedside, and embrace her amid more sobs, telling her in a suffocating tone that she, now, had nobody but her in the world.
In the evening, she consented to get up, and make an effort to eat. Therese then saw what a terrible shock her aunt had received. The legs of the old lady had become so ponderous that she required a stick to assist her to drag herself into the dining-room, and there she thought the walls were vacillating around her.
Nevertheless, the following day she wished the shop to be opened. She feared she would go mad if she continued to remain alone in her room. She went down the wooden staircase with heavy tread, placing her two feet on each step, and seated herself behind the counter. From that day forth, she remained riveted there in placid affliction.
Sunday, November 25, 2012
What was that you called me
"What was that you called me, Baldy,link?" he asked. "What kind of a concert was it?"
"A 'consort,'" corrected Baldy--"a 'prince-consort.' It's a kind of short-card pseudonym. You come in sort of between Jack-high and a four-card flush."
Webb Yeager sighed, and gathered the strap of his Winchester scabbard from the floor.
"I'm ridin' back to the ranch to-day," he said half-heartedly. "I've got to start a bunch of beeves for San Antone in the morning."
"I'm your company as far as Dry Lake," announced Baldy. "I've got a round-up camp on the San Marcos cuttin' out two-year-olds."
The two companeros mounted their ponies and trotted away from the little railroad settlement, where they had foregathered in the thirsty morning.
At Dry Lake, where their routes diverged, they reined up for a parting cigarette. For miles they had ridden in silence save for the soft drum of the ponies' hoofs on the matted mesquite grass, and the rattle of the chaparral against their wooden stirrups. But in Texas discourse is seldom continuous. You may fill in a mile, a meal, and a murder between your paragraphs without detriment to your thesis. So, without apology, Webb offered an addendum to the conversation that had begun ten miles away.
"You remember, yourself, Baldy, that there was a time when Santa wasn't quite so independent. You remember the days when old McAllister was keepin' us apart, and how she used to send me the sign that she wanted to see me? Old man Mac promised to make me look like a colander if I ever come in gun-shot of the ranch. You remember the sign she used to send, Baldy--the heart with a cross inside of it?"
"Me?" cried Baldy, with intoxicated archness. "You old sugar-stealing coyote! Don't I remember! Why, you dad-blamed old long-horned turtle- dove, the boys in camp was all cognoscious about them hiroglyphs. The 'gizzard-and-crossbones' we used to call it. We used to see 'em on truck that was sent out from the ranch. They was marked in charcoal on the sacks of flour and in lead-pencil on the newspapers. I see one of 'em once chalked on the back of a new cook that old man McAllister sent out from the ranch--danged if I didn't."
"Santa's father," explained Webb gently, "got her to promise that she wouldn't write to me or send me any word. That heart-and-cross sign was her scheme. Whenever she wanted to see me in particular she managed to put that mark on somethin' at the ranch that she knew I'd see. And I never laid eyes on it but what I burnt the wind for the ranch the same night. I used to see her in that coma mott back of the little horse-corral."
"We knowed it,shox torch 2," chanted Baldy,UGG Clerance; "but we never let on. We was all for you. We knowed why you always kept that fast paint in camp. And when we see that gizzard-and-crossbones figured out on the truck from the ranch we knowed old Pinto was goin' to eat up miles that night instead of grass. You remember Scurry--that educated horse-wrangler we had-- the college fellow that tangle-foot drove to the range? Whenever Scurry saw that come-meet-your-honey brand on anything from the ranch, he'd wave his hand like that, and say,replica gucci handbags, 'Our friend Lee Andrews will again swim the Hell's point to-night.'"
"A 'consort,'" corrected Baldy--"a 'prince-consort.' It's a kind of short-card pseudonym. You come in sort of between Jack-high and a four-card flush."
Webb Yeager sighed, and gathered the strap of his Winchester scabbard from the floor.
"I'm ridin' back to the ranch to-day," he said half-heartedly. "I've got to start a bunch of beeves for San Antone in the morning."
"I'm your company as far as Dry Lake," announced Baldy. "I've got a round-up camp on the San Marcos cuttin' out two-year-olds."
The two companeros mounted their ponies and trotted away from the little railroad settlement, where they had foregathered in the thirsty morning.
At Dry Lake, where their routes diverged, they reined up for a parting cigarette. For miles they had ridden in silence save for the soft drum of the ponies' hoofs on the matted mesquite grass, and the rattle of the chaparral against their wooden stirrups. But in Texas discourse is seldom continuous. You may fill in a mile, a meal, and a murder between your paragraphs without detriment to your thesis. So, without apology, Webb offered an addendum to the conversation that had begun ten miles away.
"You remember, yourself, Baldy, that there was a time when Santa wasn't quite so independent. You remember the days when old McAllister was keepin' us apart, and how she used to send me the sign that she wanted to see me? Old man Mac promised to make me look like a colander if I ever come in gun-shot of the ranch. You remember the sign she used to send, Baldy--the heart with a cross inside of it?"
"Me?" cried Baldy, with intoxicated archness. "You old sugar-stealing coyote! Don't I remember! Why, you dad-blamed old long-horned turtle- dove, the boys in camp was all cognoscious about them hiroglyphs. The 'gizzard-and-crossbones' we used to call it. We used to see 'em on truck that was sent out from the ranch. They was marked in charcoal on the sacks of flour and in lead-pencil on the newspapers. I see one of 'em once chalked on the back of a new cook that old man McAllister sent out from the ranch--danged if I didn't."
"Santa's father," explained Webb gently, "got her to promise that she wouldn't write to me or send me any word. That heart-and-cross sign was her scheme. Whenever she wanted to see me in particular she managed to put that mark on somethin' at the ranch that she knew I'd see. And I never laid eyes on it but what I burnt the wind for the ranch the same night. I used to see her in that coma mott back of the little horse-corral."
"We knowed it,shox torch 2," chanted Baldy,UGG Clerance; "but we never let on. We was all for you. We knowed why you always kept that fast paint in camp. And when we see that gizzard-and-crossbones figured out on the truck from the ranch we knowed old Pinto was goin' to eat up miles that night instead of grass. You remember Scurry--that educated horse-wrangler we had-- the college fellow that tangle-foot drove to the range? Whenever Scurry saw that come-meet-your-honey brand on anything from the ranch, he'd wave his hand like that, and say,replica gucci handbags, 'Our friend Lee Andrews will again swim the Hell's point to-night.'"
Sarah and I exchange glances
Sarah and I exchange glances. In high school they lived in Birkenstocks and followed the Dead. Now they stand before us, Alexandra at nearly six feet and Langly at barely five, in shearling coats, cashmere turtlenecks, and a shitload of Cartier,shox torch 2.
"TOOTS!" they cry again as Alexandra envelops Sarah in a big hug, nearly clonking her on the head with one of her shopping bags.
"Toots, what's up?" Alexandra asks. "So, do you have a man?"
Sarah's eyelids lift. "No. Well, I mean there was someone, but..." She's starting to sweat, foundation beading on her brow.
"I have a faaabulous man-he's Greek. He's soo gorgeous. We're going to the Riviera next week," Alexandra coos. "So, what are you up to?" she asks me.
"Oh, same old, same old. Still working with kids."
"Huh," Langly says quietly. "What're you gonna do next year?"
"Well, I'm hoping to work with an after-school program." Their eyes narrow, as if I had just switched languages unexpectedly. "Focusing on using creative arts? As a tool for self-expression? And, um, building community?" I am getting completely blank looks. "Kathie Lee's really involved?" I offer as a last-ditch effort to ... what?
"Right. What about you?" Langly almost whispers to Sarah.
"I'm going to work at Allure."
"Oh,Designer Handbags, my God!!" they squeal.
"Well," Sarah continues, "I'm only going to be answering the phones, but-"
"No, that's awesome. I. Love. Allure," Alexandra says.
"What are you guys doing next year?" I ask.
"Following my man," Alexandra says.
"Ganja," Langly says softly.
"Well, we better run-we're meeting my mom at Cote Basque at one. Oh, Toots!" Sarah is once again molested by Alexandra and they head off to poke at their seafood salads.
"You're too funny,homepage," I say to Sarah. "Allure?"
"Fuck 'em. Come on, let's go eat somewhere fabulous."
We decide to treat ourselves to a chic lunch of red wine and robiola cheese pizzas at Fred's.
"I mean, would you actually leave your underwear in someone's house?"
"Nan," Sarah says, shutting me up. "I just don't understand why you care. Mrs. X works you like a mule and gave you dead-animal headgear for a bonus! What is your loyalty?"
"Sarah, regardless of what kind of a whackjob employer she might be, she's still Grayer's mom and this woman is having sex with her husband in her bed. And in Grayer's home. It makes me heartsick. Nobody deserves that. And that freak! She wants to get caught! What's up with that?"
"Well, if my married boyfriend was dawdling about leaving his wife I guess I might want him to get caught, too."
"So, if I tell, Ms. Chicago wins and Mrs. X will be devastated. If I don't tell it's humiliating for Mrs. X-"
"Nan, this is not even within a million miles of your responsibility. You don't have to be the one to tell her. Trust me-it's not in your job description."
"But if I don't and the panties are floating around and she finds out that way ... Ugh! How awful! Oh, my God, what if Grayer finds them? She's so evil I bet she'd put them somewhere he'd find them."
"Nan, get a grip. How would he even know they were hers,fake uggs?"
"Because they're probably black and lacy and thonged and he might not get it now, but one day he'll be in therapy and it'll just kill him. Get your coat."
"TOOTS!" they cry again as Alexandra envelops Sarah in a big hug, nearly clonking her on the head with one of her shopping bags.
"Toots, what's up?" Alexandra asks. "So, do you have a man?"
Sarah's eyelids lift. "No. Well, I mean there was someone, but..." She's starting to sweat, foundation beading on her brow.
"I have a faaabulous man-he's Greek. He's soo gorgeous. We're going to the Riviera next week," Alexandra coos. "So, what are you up to?" she asks me.
"Oh, same old, same old. Still working with kids."
"Huh," Langly says quietly. "What're you gonna do next year?"
"Well, I'm hoping to work with an after-school program." Their eyes narrow, as if I had just switched languages unexpectedly. "Focusing on using creative arts? As a tool for self-expression? And, um, building community?" I am getting completely blank looks. "Kathie Lee's really involved?" I offer as a last-ditch effort to ... what?
"Right. What about you?" Langly almost whispers to Sarah.
"I'm going to work at Allure."
"Oh,Designer Handbags, my God!!" they squeal.
"Well," Sarah continues, "I'm only going to be answering the phones, but-"
"No, that's awesome. I. Love. Allure," Alexandra says.
"What are you guys doing next year?" I ask.
"Following my man," Alexandra says.
"Ganja," Langly says softly.
"Well, we better run-we're meeting my mom at Cote Basque at one. Oh, Toots!" Sarah is once again molested by Alexandra and they head off to poke at their seafood salads.
"You're too funny,homepage," I say to Sarah. "Allure?"
"Fuck 'em. Come on, let's go eat somewhere fabulous."
We decide to treat ourselves to a chic lunch of red wine and robiola cheese pizzas at Fred's.
"I mean, would you actually leave your underwear in someone's house?"
"Nan," Sarah says, shutting me up. "I just don't understand why you care. Mrs. X works you like a mule and gave you dead-animal headgear for a bonus! What is your loyalty?"
"Sarah, regardless of what kind of a whackjob employer she might be, she's still Grayer's mom and this woman is having sex with her husband in her bed. And in Grayer's home. It makes me heartsick. Nobody deserves that. And that freak! She wants to get caught! What's up with that?"
"Well, if my married boyfriend was dawdling about leaving his wife I guess I might want him to get caught, too."
"So, if I tell, Ms. Chicago wins and Mrs. X will be devastated. If I don't tell it's humiliating for Mrs. X-"
"Nan, this is not even within a million miles of your responsibility. You don't have to be the one to tell her. Trust me-it's not in your job description."
"But if I don't and the panties are floating around and she finds out that way ... Ugh! How awful! Oh, my God, what if Grayer finds them? She's so evil I bet she'd put them somewhere he'd find them."
"Nan, get a grip. How would he even know they were hers,fake uggs?"
"Because they're probably black and lacy and thonged and he might not get it now, but one day he'll be in therapy and it'll just kill him. Get your coat."
Friday, November 23, 2012
There were a few dozen letters
There were a few dozen letters, three magazines, and two packages. One package she recognized as an item she'd ordered from a catalog for Kevin's birthday. The second, though, was wrapped in plain brown paper without a return address.
This second package was long and rectangular, sealed with extra tape. There were two "Fragile" stickers-one near the address and the other on the opposite side of the box-and another sticker that said "Handle with Care." Curious, she decided to open it first.
It was then that she saw the postmark from Wilmington, North Carolina, dated from two weeks before. Quickly she scanned the address scrawled on the front.
It was Garrett's handwriting.
"No . . ." She set the package down, her stomach suddenly tight.
She found a pair of scissors in the drawer and shakily began to cut the tape, pulling at the paper carefully as she did so. She already knew what she'd find inside.
After lifting out the object and checking the rest of the package to make sure nothing was still inside, she carefully loosened the surrounding bubble wrap. It was taped tightly at the top and bottom, and she was forced to use the scissors again. Finally, after prying off the remaining pieces, she set the object on her desk and stared at it for a long moment, unable to move. When she lifted it into better light, she saw her own reflection.
The bottle was corked, and the rolled-up letter inside stood on its end. After removing the cork-he'd corked it only loosely-she tipped it upside-down, and the letter spilled out easily. Like the letter she'd found only a few months before, it was wrapped in yarn. She unrolled it carefully, making sure not to rip it.
It was written with a fountain pen. In the top right corner was a picture of an old ship, sails billowing in the wind.
Dear Theresa,
Can you forgive me?
She laid the letter on the desk. Her throat ached, making it difficult to breathe. The overhead light was making a strange prism of her unbidden tears.
She reached for some tissue and rubbed her eyes. Composing herself, she started again.
Can you forgive me?
In a world that I seldom understand, there are winds of destiny that blow when we least expect them. Sometimes they gust with the fury of a hurricane, sometimes they barely fan one's cheek. But the winds cannot be denied, bringing as they often do a future that is impossible to ignore. You, my darling, are the wind that I did not anticipate, the wind that has gusted more strongly than I ever imagined possible. You are my destiny.
I was wrong, so wrong, to ignore what was obvious, and I beg your forgiveness. Like a cautious traveler, I tried to protect myself from the wind and lost my soul instead. I was a fool to ignore my destiny, but even fools have feelings, and I've come to realize that you are the most important thing that I have in this world.
I know I am not perfect. I've made more mistakes in the past few months than some make in a lifetime. I was wrong to have acted as I did when I found the letters, just as I was wrong to hide the truth about what I was going through with respect to my past. When I chased you as you drove down the street and again as I watched you leave from the airport, I knew I should have tried harder to stop you. But most of all, I was wrong to deny what was obvious in my heart: that I can't go on without you.
This second package was long and rectangular, sealed with extra tape. There were two "Fragile" stickers-one near the address and the other on the opposite side of the box-and another sticker that said "Handle with Care." Curious, she decided to open it first.
It was then that she saw the postmark from Wilmington, North Carolina, dated from two weeks before. Quickly she scanned the address scrawled on the front.
It was Garrett's handwriting.
"No . . ." She set the package down, her stomach suddenly tight.
She found a pair of scissors in the drawer and shakily began to cut the tape, pulling at the paper carefully as she did so. She already knew what she'd find inside.
After lifting out the object and checking the rest of the package to make sure nothing was still inside, she carefully loosened the surrounding bubble wrap. It was taped tightly at the top and bottom, and she was forced to use the scissors again. Finally, after prying off the remaining pieces, she set the object on her desk and stared at it for a long moment, unable to move. When she lifted it into better light, she saw her own reflection.
The bottle was corked, and the rolled-up letter inside stood on its end. After removing the cork-he'd corked it only loosely-she tipped it upside-down, and the letter spilled out easily. Like the letter she'd found only a few months before, it was wrapped in yarn. She unrolled it carefully, making sure not to rip it.
It was written with a fountain pen. In the top right corner was a picture of an old ship, sails billowing in the wind.
Dear Theresa,
Can you forgive me?
She laid the letter on the desk. Her throat ached, making it difficult to breathe. The overhead light was making a strange prism of her unbidden tears.
She reached for some tissue and rubbed her eyes. Composing herself, she started again.
Can you forgive me?
In a world that I seldom understand, there are winds of destiny that blow when we least expect them. Sometimes they gust with the fury of a hurricane, sometimes they barely fan one's cheek. But the winds cannot be denied, bringing as they often do a future that is impossible to ignore. You, my darling, are the wind that I did not anticipate, the wind that has gusted more strongly than I ever imagined possible. You are my destiny.
I was wrong, so wrong, to ignore what was obvious, and I beg your forgiveness. Like a cautious traveler, I tried to protect myself from the wind and lost my soul instead. I was a fool to ignore my destiny, but even fools have feelings, and I've come to realize that you are the most important thing that I have in this world.
I know I am not perfect. I've made more mistakes in the past few months than some make in a lifetime. I was wrong to have acted as I did when I found the letters, just as I was wrong to hide the truth about what I was going through with respect to my past. When I chased you as you drove down the street and again as I watched you leave from the airport, I knew I should have tried harder to stop you. But most of all, I was wrong to deny what was obvious in my heart: that I can't go on without you.
Most timidities have such secret compensations
Most timidities have such secret compensations, and Miss Bart was discerning enough to know that the inner vanity is generally in proportion to the outer self-depreciation. With a more confident person she would not have dared to dwell so long on one topic, or to show such exaggerated interest in it; but she had rightly guessed that Mr. Gryce's egoism was a thirsty soil, requiring constant nurture from without. Miss Bart had the gift of following an undercurrent of thought while she appeared to be sailing on the surface of conversation; and in this case her mental excursion took the form of a rapid survey of Mr. Percy Gryce's future as combined with her own. The Gryces were from Albany, and but lately introduced to the metropolis, where the mother and son had come, after old Jefferson Gryce's death, to take possession of his house in Madison Avenue--an appalling house, all brown stone without and black walnut within, with the Gryce library in a fire-proof annex that looked like a mausoleum. Lily, however, knew all about them: young Mr. Gryce's arrival had fluttered the maternal breasts of New York, and when a girl has no mother to palpitate for her she must needs be on the alert for herself. Lily, therefore, had not only contrived to put herself in the young man's way, but had made the acquaintance of Mrs. Gryce, a monumental woman with the voice of a pulpit orator and a mind preoccupied with the iniquities of her servants, who came sometimes to sit with Mrs. Peniston and learn from that lady how she managed to prevent the kitchen-maid's smuggling groceries out of the house. Mrs. Gryce had a kind of impersonal benevolence: cases of individual need she regarded with suspicion, but she subscribed to Institutions when their annual reports showed an impressive surplus. Her domestic duties were manifold, for they extended from furtive inspections of the servants' bedrooms to unannounced descents to the cellar; but she had never allowed herself many pleasures. Once, however, she had had a special edition of the Sarum Rule printed in rubric and presented to every clergyman in the diocese; and the gilt album in which their letters of thanks were pasted formed the chief ornament of her drawing-room table.
Percy had been brought up in the principles which so excellent a woman was sure to inculcate. Every form of prudence and suspicion had been grafted on a nature originally reluctant and cautious, with the result that it would have seemed hardly needful for Mrs. Gryce to extract his promise about the overshoes, so little likely was he to hazard himself abroad in the rain. After attaining his majority, and coming into the fortune which the late Mr. Gryce had made out of a patent device for excluding fresh air from hotels, the young man continued to live with his mother in Albany; but on Jefferson Gryce's death, when another large property passed into her son's hands, Mrs. Gryce thought that what she called his "interests" demanded his presence in New York. She accordingly installed herself in the Madison Avenue house, and Percy, whose sense of duty was not inferior to his mother's, spent all his week days in the handsome Broad Street office where a batch of pale men on small salaries had grown grey in the management of the Gryce estate, and where he was initiated with becoming reverence into every detail of the art of accumulation.
Percy had been brought up in the principles which so excellent a woman was sure to inculcate. Every form of prudence and suspicion had been grafted on a nature originally reluctant and cautious, with the result that it would have seemed hardly needful for Mrs. Gryce to extract his promise about the overshoes, so little likely was he to hazard himself abroad in the rain. After attaining his majority, and coming into the fortune which the late Mr. Gryce had made out of a patent device for excluding fresh air from hotels, the young man continued to live with his mother in Albany; but on Jefferson Gryce's death, when another large property passed into her son's hands, Mrs. Gryce thought that what she called his "interests" demanded his presence in New York. She accordingly installed herself in the Madison Avenue house, and Percy, whose sense of duty was not inferior to his mother's, spent all his week days in the handsome Broad Street office where a batch of pale men on small salaries had grown grey in the management of the Gryce estate, and where he was initiated with becoming reverence into every detail of the art of accumulation.
Thursday, November 22, 2012
But let us go back to the execution
But let us go back to the execution, for now all were heading for the place where Michael would be put to death.
The captain and his men brought him out of the gate, with his little skirt on him and some of the buttons undone, and as he walked with a broad stride and a bowed head, reciting his office, he seemed one of the martyrs. And the crowd was unbelievably large and many cried, “Do not die!” and he would answer, “I want to die for Christ.” “But you are not dying for Christ,” they said to him; and he said, “No, for the truth.” When they came to a place called the Proconsul’s Corner, one man cried to him to pray to God for them all, and he blessed the crowd.
At the Church of the Baptist they shouted to him, “Save your life!” and he answered, “Run for your life from sin!”; at the Old Market they shouted to him, “Live, live!” and he replied, “Save yourselves from hell”; at the New Market they yelled, “Repent, repent,” and he replied, “Repent of your usury.” And on reaching Santa Croce, he saw the monks of his order on the steps, and he reproached them because they did not follow the Rule of Saint Francis. And some of them shrugged, but others pulled their cowls over their faces to cover them, in shame.
And going toward the Justice Gate, many said to him, “Recant! Recant! Don’t insist on dying,” and he said, “Christ died for us.” And they said, “But you are not Christ, you must not die for us!” And he said, “But I want to die for Him.” At the Field of justice, one said to him he should do as a certain monk, his superior, had done, abjuring; but Michael answered that he would not abjure, and I saw many in the crowd, agree and urge Michael to be strong: so I and many others realized those were his followers, and we moved away from them.
Finally we were outside the city and before us the pyre appeared, the “hut,” as they called it there, be?cause the wood was arranged in the form of a hut, and there a circle of armed horsemen formed, to keep people from coming too close. And there they bound Brother Michael to the stake. And again I heard some?one shout to him, “But what is it you’re dying for?” And he answered; “For a truth that dwells in me, which I can proclaim only by death.” They set fire to the wood. And Brother Michael, who had chanted the “Credo,” afterward chanted the “Te Deum.” He sang perhaps eight verses of it, then he bent over as if he had to sneeze, and fell to the ground, because his bonds had burned away. He was already dead: before the body is completely burned it has already died from the great heat, which makes the heart explode, and from the smoke that fills the chest.
Then the hut burned entirely, like a torch, and there was a great glow, and if it had not been for the poor charred body of Michael, still glimpsed among the glowing coals, I would have said I was standing before the burning bush. And I was close enough to have a view (I recalled as I climbed the steps of the library) that made some words rise spontaneously to my lips, about ecstatic rapture; I had read them in the books of Saint Hildegard: “The flame consists of a splendid clarity, of an unusual vigor, and of an igneous ardor, but possesses the splendid clarity that it may illuminate and the igneous ardor that it may burn.”
The captain and his men brought him out of the gate, with his little skirt on him and some of the buttons undone, and as he walked with a broad stride and a bowed head, reciting his office, he seemed one of the martyrs. And the crowd was unbelievably large and many cried, “Do not die!” and he would answer, “I want to die for Christ.” “But you are not dying for Christ,” they said to him; and he said, “No, for the truth.” When they came to a place called the Proconsul’s Corner, one man cried to him to pray to God for them all, and he blessed the crowd.
At the Church of the Baptist they shouted to him, “Save your life!” and he answered, “Run for your life from sin!”; at the Old Market they shouted to him, “Live, live!” and he replied, “Save yourselves from hell”; at the New Market they yelled, “Repent, repent,” and he replied, “Repent of your usury.” And on reaching Santa Croce, he saw the monks of his order on the steps, and he reproached them because they did not follow the Rule of Saint Francis. And some of them shrugged, but others pulled their cowls over their faces to cover them, in shame.
And going toward the Justice Gate, many said to him, “Recant! Recant! Don’t insist on dying,” and he said, “Christ died for us.” And they said, “But you are not Christ, you must not die for us!” And he said, “But I want to die for Him.” At the Field of justice, one said to him he should do as a certain monk, his superior, had done, abjuring; but Michael answered that he would not abjure, and I saw many in the crowd, agree and urge Michael to be strong: so I and many others realized those were his followers, and we moved away from them.
Finally we were outside the city and before us the pyre appeared, the “hut,” as they called it there, be?cause the wood was arranged in the form of a hut, and there a circle of armed horsemen formed, to keep people from coming too close. And there they bound Brother Michael to the stake. And again I heard some?one shout to him, “But what is it you’re dying for?” And he answered; “For a truth that dwells in me, which I can proclaim only by death.” They set fire to the wood. And Brother Michael, who had chanted the “Credo,” afterward chanted the “Te Deum.” He sang perhaps eight verses of it, then he bent over as if he had to sneeze, and fell to the ground, because his bonds had burned away. He was already dead: before the body is completely burned it has already died from the great heat, which makes the heart explode, and from the smoke that fills the chest.
Then the hut burned entirely, like a torch, and there was a great glow, and if it had not been for the poor charred body of Michael, still glimpsed among the glowing coals, I would have said I was standing before the burning bush. And I was close enough to have a view (I recalled as I climbed the steps of the library) that made some words rise spontaneously to my lips, about ecstatic rapture; I had read them in the books of Saint Hildegard: “The flame consists of a splendid clarity, of an unusual vigor, and of an igneous ardor, but possesses the splendid clarity that it may illuminate and the igneous ardor that it may burn.”
I grasped my pilgrim's bundle
I grasped my pilgrim's bundle, and, hurrying out of the car, dashed up the first street that presented itself.
It was a narrow, noisy, zigzag street, crowded with trucks and obstructed with bales and boxes of merchandise. I didn't pause to breathe until I had placed a respectable distance between me and the railway station. By this time it was nearly twilight.
I had got into the region of dwelling-houses, and was about to seat myself on a doorstep to rest, when, lo! there was the Admiral trundling along on the opposite sidewalk, under a full spread of canvas, as he would have expressed it.
I was off again in an instant at a rapid pace; but in spite of all I could do he held his own without any perceptible exertion. He had a very ugly gait to get away from, the Admiral. I didn't dare to run, for fear of being mistaken for a thief, a suspicion which my bundle would naturally lend color to.
I pushed ahead, however, at a brisk trot, and must have got over one or two miles--my pursuer neither gaining nor losing ground--when I concluded to surrender at discretion. I saw that Sailor Ben was determined to have me, and, knowing my man, I knew that escape was highly improbable.
So I turned round and waited for him to catch up with me, which he did in a few seconds, looking rather sheepish at first.
"Sailor Ben," said I, severely, "do I understand that you are dogging my steps?"
"'Well, little mess-mate," replied the Admiral, rubbing his nose, which he always did when he was disconcerted, "I am kind o' followin' in your wake."
"Under orders?"
"Under orders."
"Under the Captain's orders?"
"Surely."
"In other words, my grandfather has sent you to fetch me back to Rivermouth?"
"That's about it," said the Admiral, with a burst of frankness.
"And I must go with you whether I want to or not?"
"The Capen's very identical words!"
There was nothing to be done. I bit my lips with suppressed anger, and signified that I was at his disposal, since I couldn't help it. The impression was very strong in my mind that the Admiral wouldn't hesitate to put me in irons if I showed signs of mutiny.
It was too late to return to Rivermouth that night--a fact which I communicated to the old boy sullenly, inquiring at the same time what he proposed to do about it.
He said we would cruise about for some rations, and then make a night of it. I didn't condescend to reply, though I hailed the suggestion of something to eat with inward enthusiasm, for I had not taken enough food that day to keep life in a canary.
'We wandered back to the railway station, in the waiting room of which was a kind of restaurant presided over by a severe-looking young lady. Here we had a cup of coffee apiece, several tough doughnuts, and some blocks of venerable spongecake. The young lady who attended on us, whatever her age was then, must have been a mere child when that sponge-cake was made.
The Admiral's acquaintance with Boston hotels was slight; but he knew of a quiet lodging-house near by, much patronized by sea-captains, and kept by a former friend of his.
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
After the divorce
After the divorce, her father, Cliff Yarber, left Slone and moved to Dallas, where he made a fortune in strip malls. As an absentee father, he apparently tried to compensate through expensive gifts. For her sixteenth birthday, Nicole received a bright red convertible BMW Roadster, undoubtedly the nicest car in the parking lot at Slone High. The gifts were a source of friction between the divorced parents. The stepfather, Wallis Pike, ran a feed store and did well financially, but he couldn't compete with Cliff Yarber.
In the year or so before her disappearance, Nicole dated a classmate by the name of Joey Gamble, one of the more popular boys in school. Indeed, in the tenth and eleventh grades, Nicole and Joey were voted most popular and posed together for the school yearbook. Joey was one of three captains of the football team. He later played briefly at a junior college. He would become a key witness at the trial of Donte Drumm.
Since her disappearance, and since the subsequent trial, there has been much speculation about the relationship between Nicole Yarber and Donte Drumm. Nothing definite has been learned or confirmed. Donte has always maintained that the two were nothing more than casual acquaintances, just two kids who'd grown up in the same town and were members of a graduating class of over five hundred. He denied at trial, under oath, and he has denied ever since, that he had a sexual relationship with Nicole. Her friends have always believed this too. Skeptics, however, point out that Donte would be foolish to admit an intimate relationship with a woman he was accused of murdering. Several of his friends allegedly said that the two had just begun an affair when she disappeared. Much speculation centers upon the actions of Joey Gamble. Gamble testified at trial that he saw a green Ford van moving slowly and "suspiciously" through the parking lot where Nicole's BMW was parked at the time she disappeared. Donte Drumm often drove such a van, one owned by his parents. Gamble's testimony was attacked at trial and should have been discredited. The theory is that Gamble knew of Nicole's affair with Donte, and as the odd man out he became so enraged that he helped the police frame their story against Donte Drumm.
Three years after the trial, a voice analysis expert hired by defense lawyers determined that the anonymous man who called Detective Kerber with the tip that Donte was the killer was, in fact, Joey Gamble. Gamble vehemently denies this. If it is true, then Gamble played a significant role in the arrest, prosecution, and conviction of Donte Drumm.
A voice jolted him from another world. "Keith, it's Dr. Herzlich," Dana said through the phone's intercom.
Keith said, "Thanks," and paused for a moment to clear his mind. Then he picked up the phone. He began with the usual pleasantries, but knowing the doctor was a busy man, he quickly got down to business. "Look, Dr. Herzlich, I need a little favor, and if it's too sticky, just say so. We had a guest during the worship service yesterday, a convict in the process of being paroled, spending a few months at a halfway house, and he's really a troubled soul. He stopped by this morning, just left actually, and he claims to have some rather severe medical problems. He's been seen at St. Francis."
In the year or so before her disappearance, Nicole dated a classmate by the name of Joey Gamble, one of the more popular boys in school. Indeed, in the tenth and eleventh grades, Nicole and Joey were voted most popular and posed together for the school yearbook. Joey was one of three captains of the football team. He later played briefly at a junior college. He would become a key witness at the trial of Donte Drumm.
Since her disappearance, and since the subsequent trial, there has been much speculation about the relationship between Nicole Yarber and Donte Drumm. Nothing definite has been learned or confirmed. Donte has always maintained that the two were nothing more than casual acquaintances, just two kids who'd grown up in the same town and were members of a graduating class of over five hundred. He denied at trial, under oath, and he has denied ever since, that he had a sexual relationship with Nicole. Her friends have always believed this too. Skeptics, however, point out that Donte would be foolish to admit an intimate relationship with a woman he was accused of murdering. Several of his friends allegedly said that the two had just begun an affair when she disappeared. Much speculation centers upon the actions of Joey Gamble. Gamble testified at trial that he saw a green Ford van moving slowly and "suspiciously" through the parking lot where Nicole's BMW was parked at the time she disappeared. Donte Drumm often drove such a van, one owned by his parents. Gamble's testimony was attacked at trial and should have been discredited. The theory is that Gamble knew of Nicole's affair with Donte, and as the odd man out he became so enraged that he helped the police frame their story against Donte Drumm.
Three years after the trial, a voice analysis expert hired by defense lawyers determined that the anonymous man who called Detective Kerber with the tip that Donte was the killer was, in fact, Joey Gamble. Gamble vehemently denies this. If it is true, then Gamble played a significant role in the arrest, prosecution, and conviction of Donte Drumm.
A voice jolted him from another world. "Keith, it's Dr. Herzlich," Dana said through the phone's intercom.
Keith said, "Thanks," and paused for a moment to clear his mind. Then he picked up the phone. He began with the usual pleasantries, but knowing the doctor was a busy man, he quickly got down to business. "Look, Dr. Herzlich, I need a little favor, and if it's too sticky, just say so. We had a guest during the worship service yesterday, a convict in the process of being paroled, spending a few months at a halfway house, and he's really a troubled soul. He stopped by this morning, just left actually, and he claims to have some rather severe medical problems. He's been seen at St. Francis."
How many wars are you selling
"How many wars are you selling?" Fenig said.
"Dollar seventy-five I'll take. A selected car broom. Keeps your dashboard free of foreign matter. Fits any. glove compartment, big or little or money back. Jumping; out of troop planes. Hand to hand in the trenches. Loose lips sink ships. Graduating from tail-gunner school. Armless and legless. Can't even salute the flag they died for. Ninety-five cents, I'll come up and get it,Moncler outlet online store; a quarter, just roll it down the stairs. Guadalcanal, Burma, espionage, ack-ack. They fought on the sea, in planes and trains, on motorcycles with sidecars, under the water in submarine warfare. A three-dollar brush made by a vet for fifty cents even, plus tax. Seven patriotic colors. I am not a hustler. This is not a brush hustle. They came from places like Pittsburgh, Grand Rapids, San Diego, Alabama. They went and they fought and they got hurt, some of them,replica gucci wallets, pretty bad. Kansas City, Kansas. Kansas City, Missouri. It was war, it was war."
We went back inside. I got on my knees and looked in the cabinet space under the sink for some sign of a coffee can. But what sign? Either the coffee can would be there or it wouldn't. There was no sign involved. I kept at it, determined to conduct an intelligent search. The idea of coffee was overpowering. Finding it and brewing it. Feeling the thick liquid wash down my throat and divide itself into tributaries and attenuated falls. If I could find a clean spoon, the coffee might turn up next. My shirt felt heavy and wet, sticking to my back. There was still hope of locating a trace of sugar somewhere in the room — a lump stuck in the bottom of the box, some brownish fossils to be scraped off the sides of the sugar bowl, assuming the box and sugar bowl existed. Given this or even part of it, I might then find coffee or at least a saucer that might lead to coffee. Signs that serve no purpose are logically meaningless, according to something I'd read once and tried to remember. I had it wrong but that didn't matter. I was votary and dupe of superstition. If I could find the box of sugar, it would lead me to a clean spoon. Spoon secured, named and agreed on, we pursue the formal concept to its inevitable end, which is coffee,mont blanc pens. The salesman appeared in the doorway.
"Marks, drachmas, rubles, pounds, shillings, yens. I'll take anything and everything. The Swiss franc, the French franc, the Bulgarian stotinki. Here, take a brush for a free ten-day home trial. At the end of that time,nike shox torch ii, pay me any way you like. Piasters, pesos, kopecks, bolivars, rupees, dongs. I'm a long-time student of world currency and exchange rates. I bet you don't know how many puli in the Afghanistan afghani. I bet you can't guess where the kwacha comes from."
"You're talking about thirty years ago," Fenig said. "These guys are still making brushes?"
There is no need to look for cream, milk or half-and-half (I repeated to myself). Fenig likes his coffee black. There is no need to look for cream, milk or half-and-half.
Chapter 8
hanes beturned one day, minus a few of his soft blond locks, dressed a bit less splendidly than usual. He had few virtues as a messenger but I was convinced Globke's use of him entailed more serious things. A sort of image-gathering. Maybe Hanes as an image of my public. Or Hanes as Wunderlick-in-exile. He leaned back against the edge of the raised bathtub, tapping his boot heel on the ancient enamel.
"Dollar seventy-five I'll take. A selected car broom. Keeps your dashboard free of foreign matter. Fits any. glove compartment, big or little or money back. Jumping; out of troop planes. Hand to hand in the trenches. Loose lips sink ships. Graduating from tail-gunner school. Armless and legless. Can't even salute the flag they died for. Ninety-five cents, I'll come up and get it,Moncler outlet online store; a quarter, just roll it down the stairs. Guadalcanal, Burma, espionage, ack-ack. They fought on the sea, in planes and trains, on motorcycles with sidecars, under the water in submarine warfare. A three-dollar brush made by a vet for fifty cents even, plus tax. Seven patriotic colors. I am not a hustler. This is not a brush hustle. They came from places like Pittsburgh, Grand Rapids, San Diego, Alabama. They went and they fought and they got hurt, some of them,replica gucci wallets, pretty bad. Kansas City, Kansas. Kansas City, Missouri. It was war, it was war."
We went back inside. I got on my knees and looked in the cabinet space under the sink for some sign of a coffee can. But what sign? Either the coffee can would be there or it wouldn't. There was no sign involved. I kept at it, determined to conduct an intelligent search. The idea of coffee was overpowering. Finding it and brewing it. Feeling the thick liquid wash down my throat and divide itself into tributaries and attenuated falls. If I could find a clean spoon, the coffee might turn up next. My shirt felt heavy and wet, sticking to my back. There was still hope of locating a trace of sugar somewhere in the room — a lump stuck in the bottom of the box, some brownish fossils to be scraped off the sides of the sugar bowl, assuming the box and sugar bowl existed. Given this or even part of it, I might then find coffee or at least a saucer that might lead to coffee. Signs that serve no purpose are logically meaningless, according to something I'd read once and tried to remember. I had it wrong but that didn't matter. I was votary and dupe of superstition. If I could find the box of sugar, it would lead me to a clean spoon. Spoon secured, named and agreed on, we pursue the formal concept to its inevitable end, which is coffee,mont blanc pens. The salesman appeared in the doorway.
"Marks, drachmas, rubles, pounds, shillings, yens. I'll take anything and everything. The Swiss franc, the French franc, the Bulgarian stotinki. Here, take a brush for a free ten-day home trial. At the end of that time,nike shox torch ii, pay me any way you like. Piasters, pesos, kopecks, bolivars, rupees, dongs. I'm a long-time student of world currency and exchange rates. I bet you don't know how many puli in the Afghanistan afghani. I bet you can't guess where the kwacha comes from."
"You're talking about thirty years ago," Fenig said. "These guys are still making brushes?"
There is no need to look for cream, milk or half-and-half (I repeated to myself). Fenig likes his coffee black. There is no need to look for cream, milk or half-and-half.
Chapter 8
hanes beturned one day, minus a few of his soft blond locks, dressed a bit less splendidly than usual. He had few virtues as a messenger but I was convinced Globke's use of him entailed more serious things. A sort of image-gathering. Maybe Hanes as an image of my public. Or Hanes as Wunderlick-in-exile. He leaned back against the edge of the raised bathtub, tapping his boot heel on the ancient enamel.
The furniture consisted of a wash-hand stand and a little deal chest of drawers
The furniture consisted of a wash-hand stand and a little deal chest of drawers, which acted as sideboard to such pots and pans and crockery as could not find room in the grate; and besides the bed there was nothing but two kitchen chairs and a lamp. Liza looked at it all and felt perfectly satisfied; she put a pin into one corner of the noble Marquess to prevent him from falling, fiddled about with the ornaments a little, and then started washing herself. After putting on her clothes she ate some bread-and-butter, swallowed a dishful of cold tea, and went out into the street.
She saw some boys playing cricket and went up to them.
'Let me ply,' she said.
'Arright, Liza,' cried half a dozen of them in delight; and the captain added: 'You go an' scout over by the lamp-post.'
'Go an' scout my eye!' said Liza,replica gucci wallets, indignantly. 'When I ply cricket I does the battin'.'
'Na, you're not goin' ter bat all the time. 'Oo are you gettin' at?' replied the captain, who had taken advantage of his position to put himself in first, and was still at the wicket.
'Well, then I shan't ply,' answered Liza.
'Garn, Ernie, let 'er go in!' shouted two or three members of the team.
'Well, I'm busted!' remarked the captain, as she took his bat. 'You won't sty in long, I lay,' he said, as he sent the old bowler fielding and took the ball himself. He was a young gentleman who did not suffer from excessive backwardness.
'Aht!' shouted a dozen voices as the ball went past Liza's bat and landed in the pile of coats which formed the wicket. The captain came forward to resume his innings, but Liza held the bat away from him.
'Garn!' she said; 'thet was only a trial,fake uggs.'
'You never said trial,' answered the captain indignantly.
'Yus, I did,' said Liza; 'I said it just as the ball was comin'--under my breath.'
'Well, I am busted!' repeated the captain.
Just then Liza saw Tom among the lookers-on, and as she felt very kindly disposed to the world in general that morning, she called out to him:
''Ulloa, Tom!' she said. 'Come an' give us a ball; this chap can't bowl.'
'Well, I got yer aht, any'ow,' said that person.
'Ah, yer wouldn't 'ave got me aht plyin' square. But a trial ball--well, one don't ever know wot a trial ball's goin' ter do.'
Tom began bowling very slowly and easily, so that Liza could swing her bat round and hit mightily; she ran well, too, and pantingly brought up her score to twenty. Then the fielders interposed.
'I sy,Replica Designer Handbags, look 'ere, 'e's only givin' 'er lobs; 'e's not tryin' ter git 'er aht.'
'You're spoilin' our gime.'
'I don't care; I've got twenty runs--thet's more than you could do,fake montblanc pens. I'll go aht now of my own accord, so there! Come on, Tom.'
Tom joined her, and as the captain at last resumed his bat and the game went on, they commenced talking, Liza leaning against the wall of a house, while Tom stood in front of her, smiling with pleasure.
'Where 'ave you been idin' yerself, Tom? I ain't seen yer for I dunno 'ow long.'
'I've been abaht as usual; an' I've seen you when you didn't see me.'
'Well, yer might 'ave come up and said good mornin' when you see me.'
She saw some boys playing cricket and went up to them.
'Let me ply,' she said.
'Arright, Liza,' cried half a dozen of them in delight; and the captain added: 'You go an' scout over by the lamp-post.'
'Go an' scout my eye!' said Liza,replica gucci wallets, indignantly. 'When I ply cricket I does the battin'.'
'Na, you're not goin' ter bat all the time. 'Oo are you gettin' at?' replied the captain, who had taken advantage of his position to put himself in first, and was still at the wicket.
'Well, then I shan't ply,' answered Liza.
'Garn, Ernie, let 'er go in!' shouted two or three members of the team.
'Well, I'm busted!' remarked the captain, as she took his bat. 'You won't sty in long, I lay,' he said, as he sent the old bowler fielding and took the ball himself. He was a young gentleman who did not suffer from excessive backwardness.
'Aht!' shouted a dozen voices as the ball went past Liza's bat and landed in the pile of coats which formed the wicket. The captain came forward to resume his innings, but Liza held the bat away from him.
'Garn!' she said; 'thet was only a trial,fake uggs.'
'You never said trial,' answered the captain indignantly.
'Yus, I did,' said Liza; 'I said it just as the ball was comin'--under my breath.'
'Well, I am busted!' repeated the captain.
Just then Liza saw Tom among the lookers-on, and as she felt very kindly disposed to the world in general that morning, she called out to him:
''Ulloa, Tom!' she said. 'Come an' give us a ball; this chap can't bowl.'
'Well, I got yer aht, any'ow,' said that person.
'Ah, yer wouldn't 'ave got me aht plyin' square. But a trial ball--well, one don't ever know wot a trial ball's goin' ter do.'
Tom began bowling very slowly and easily, so that Liza could swing her bat round and hit mightily; she ran well, too, and pantingly brought up her score to twenty. Then the fielders interposed.
'I sy,Replica Designer Handbags, look 'ere, 'e's only givin' 'er lobs; 'e's not tryin' ter git 'er aht.'
'You're spoilin' our gime.'
'I don't care; I've got twenty runs--thet's more than you could do,fake montblanc pens. I'll go aht now of my own accord, so there! Come on, Tom.'
Tom joined her, and as the captain at last resumed his bat and the game went on, they commenced talking, Liza leaning against the wall of a house, while Tom stood in front of her, smiling with pleasure.
'Where 'ave you been idin' yerself, Tom? I ain't seen yer for I dunno 'ow long.'
'I've been abaht as usual; an' I've seen you when you didn't see me.'
'Well, yer might 'ave come up and said good mornin' when you see me.'
Florence was
Florence was, one day, sitting reading in her room, and thinking of the lady and her promised visit soon - for her book turned on a kindred subject - when, raising her eyes, she saw her standing in the doorway.
'Mama!' cried Florence,Replica Designer Handbags, joyfully meeting her. 'Come again!'
'Not Mama yet,' returned the lady, with a serious smile, as she encircled Florence's neck with her arm.
'But very soon to be,' cried Florence,replica gucci wallets.
'Very soon now, Florence: very soon.
Edith bent her head a little, so as to press the blooming cheek of Florence against her own, and for some few moments remained thus silent. There was something so very tender in her manner, that Florence was even more sensible of it than on the first occasion of their meeting.
She led Florence to a chair beside her, and sat down: Florence looking in her face, quite wondering at its beauty, and willingly leaving her hand In hers.
'Have you been alone, Florence, since I was here last?'
'Oh yes!' smiled Florence, hastily.
She hesitated and cast down her eyes; for her new Mama was very earnest in her look, and the look was intently and thoughtfully fixed upon her face,mont blanc pens.
'I - I- am used to be alone,' said Florence. 'I don't mind it at all. Di and I pass whole days together, sometimes.' Florence might have said, whole weeks and months.
'Is Di your maid, love?'
'My dog, Mama,' said Florence, laughing. 'Susan is my maid.'
'And these are your rooms,' said Edith, looking round. 'I was not shown these rooms the other day. We must have them improved, Florence. They shall be made the prettiest in the house.'
'If I might change them, Mama,' returned Florence; 'there is one upstairs I should like much better.'
'Is this not high enough, dear girl?' asked Edith, smiling.
'The other was my brother's room,' said Florence, 'and I am very fond of it. I would have spoken to Papa about it when I came home, and found the workmen here, and everything changing; but - '
Florence dropped her eyes, lest the same look should make her falter again.
'but I was afraid it might distress him; and as you said you would be here again soon, Mama, and are the mistress of everything, I determined to take courage and ask you.'
Edith sat looking at her, with her brilliant eyes intent upon her face, until Florence raising her own, she, in her turn, withdrew her gaze, and turned it on the ground. It was then that Florence thought how different this lady's beauty was, from what she had supposed. She had thought it of a proud and lofty kind; yet her manner was so subdued and gentle, that if she had been of Florence's own age and character, it scarcely could have invited confidence more.
Except when a constrained and singular reserve crept over her; and then she seemed (but Florence hardly understood this, though she could not choose but notice it, and think about it) as if she were humbled before Florence, and ill at ease. When she had said that she was not her Mama yet,cheap designer handbags, and when Florence had called her the mistress of everything there, this change in her was quick and startling; and now, while the eyes of Florence rested on her face, she sat as though she would have shrunk and hidden from her, rather than as one about to love and cherish her, in right of such a near connexion.
'Mama!' cried Florence,Replica Designer Handbags, joyfully meeting her. 'Come again!'
'Not Mama yet,' returned the lady, with a serious smile, as she encircled Florence's neck with her arm.
'But very soon to be,' cried Florence,replica gucci wallets.
'Very soon now, Florence: very soon.
Edith bent her head a little, so as to press the blooming cheek of Florence against her own, and for some few moments remained thus silent. There was something so very tender in her manner, that Florence was even more sensible of it than on the first occasion of their meeting.
She led Florence to a chair beside her, and sat down: Florence looking in her face, quite wondering at its beauty, and willingly leaving her hand In hers.
'Have you been alone, Florence, since I was here last?'
'Oh yes!' smiled Florence, hastily.
She hesitated and cast down her eyes; for her new Mama was very earnest in her look, and the look was intently and thoughtfully fixed upon her face,mont blanc pens.
'I - I- am used to be alone,' said Florence. 'I don't mind it at all. Di and I pass whole days together, sometimes.' Florence might have said, whole weeks and months.
'Is Di your maid, love?'
'My dog, Mama,' said Florence, laughing. 'Susan is my maid.'
'And these are your rooms,' said Edith, looking round. 'I was not shown these rooms the other day. We must have them improved, Florence. They shall be made the prettiest in the house.'
'If I might change them, Mama,' returned Florence; 'there is one upstairs I should like much better.'
'Is this not high enough, dear girl?' asked Edith, smiling.
'The other was my brother's room,' said Florence, 'and I am very fond of it. I would have spoken to Papa about it when I came home, and found the workmen here, and everything changing; but - '
Florence dropped her eyes, lest the same look should make her falter again.
'but I was afraid it might distress him; and as you said you would be here again soon, Mama, and are the mistress of everything, I determined to take courage and ask you.'
Edith sat looking at her, with her brilliant eyes intent upon her face, until Florence raising her own, she, in her turn, withdrew her gaze, and turned it on the ground. It was then that Florence thought how different this lady's beauty was, from what she had supposed. She had thought it of a proud and lofty kind; yet her manner was so subdued and gentle, that if she had been of Florence's own age and character, it scarcely could have invited confidence more.
Except when a constrained and singular reserve crept over her; and then she seemed (but Florence hardly understood this, though she could not choose but notice it, and think about it) as if she were humbled before Florence, and ill at ease. When she had said that she was not her Mama yet,cheap designer handbags, and when Florence had called her the mistress of everything there, this change in her was quick and startling; and now, while the eyes of Florence rested on her face, she sat as though she would have shrunk and hidden from her, rather than as one about to love and cherish her, in right of such a near connexion.
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A single, aluminum-framed window was blocked by cheap, white mini-blinds.The slats tilted to the left, left a triangle of peep-space. Milotook advantage, shading his eyes with his hands and peering in.
“Looks like one room…and a bathroom with the light on.” He straightened.“Some guy’s in there peeing, let’s give him time to zip up.”
Another plane took off.
“That one’s Aspenfor sure,” he said.
“How can you tell?”
“Happy sound from the engines.” He knocked and opened the door.
A man stood by a cheap, wooden desk staring at us. He’d forgotten to zip thefly of his khaki Dockers and a corner of blue shirt peeked out. The shirt wassilk, oversized and baggy, a stone-washed texture that had been fashionable adecade ago. The khakis sagged on his skinny frame. No belt. Scuffed brown pennyloafers, white socks.
He was short—five five or six—looked to be around fifty, with down-slantedmedium brown eyes and curly gray hair cut in a tight Caesar cap. White fuzz onthe back of his neck said it was time for a trim. Same for a two-day growth ofsalt-and-pepper beard. Hollow cheeks, angular features, except for his nose.
Shiny little button that gave his face an elfin cast. Either he’d used thesame surgeon as his sister or stingy nasal endowment was a dominant Dowd trait.
Milo said, “Mr. Dowd?”
Shy smile. “I’m Billy.” The badge made him blink. His hand brushed thecorner of shirttail and he stiffened. Zipped his fly,Replica Designer Handbags. “Oops.”
Billy Dowd breathed into his hand. “Need my Altoids…where did I put them?”
Turning four pockets inside out, he produced nothing but lint that landed onthin, gray carpet. A check of his shirt pocket finally located the mints.Popping one in his mouth and chewing, he held out the tin. “Want some?”
“No, thanks, sir.”
Billy Dowd perched on the edge of his desk. Across the room was a larger,more substantial work station: carved oak replica of a rolltop, flat-screencomputer monitor, the rest of the components tucked out of view.
Brown walls. The only thing hanging a Humane Society calendar. Trio of tabbykittens staking a claim on ultimate cute.
Billy Dowd chewed another mint. “So…what’s happening?”
“You don’t seem surprised we’re here, Mr. Dowd.”
Billy blinked some more. “It’s not the only time.”
“That you’ve spoken to police?”
“Yup.”
“When were the others?”
Billy’s brow creased. “The second I’d have to say was last year? One of thetenants—we’ve got a lot of tenants, my brother and sister and me, and last yearone of them was stealing computer stuff. A policeman from Pasadena came over and talked to us. We saidokay, arrest him,link, he pays late anyway.”
“Did they?”
“Uh-uh. He ran away and escaped. Took the lightbulbs, messed the place up,Brad wasn’t happy. But then we got another tenant pretty soon and he got happy.Real nice people. Insurance agents, Mr. and Mrs. Rose,Fake Designer Handbags, they pay on time.”
“What was the name of the dishonest tenant?”
“I’d have to say…” Slowly spreading smile. “I’d have to say I don’t know.You can ask my brother, he’ll be here soon.”
“What was the other time the police visited,LINK?” said Milo.
Monday, November 19, 2012
This Fanny—the girl who guided you—she's very willing
"This Fanny—the girl who guided you—she's very willing ," said Feffer,UGG Clerance.
He ran on. "Nowadays girls are,moncler jackets men. Still somewhat shy. Not really so marvelous in the sack. In spite of big tits. Married of course. The husband works at night. He bosses the talk show I referred to . . ." And on: "I like companionship . We spend a lot of time together. Then when the insurance adjuster came . . ,Discount UGG Boots."
"What adjuster was that?" said Sammler.
"I put in a claim on a piece of luggage damaged at the airport. The fellow came over when Fanny was visiting me, and he fell in love with her—bang! Like that. He was a swinger, too, with chimpanzee teeth. Said he was a dropout from the Harvard School of Business. A real yellow face, and sweating. Awful. He looked like an oil filter that should have been changed five thousand miles ago."
"Ah, did he?"
"So I encouraged his interest in Fanny. That was good for my claim. Would I give him her phone number? I certainly did."
"With her permission?"
"I didn’t think she'd mind. Then he phoned and said, 'This is Gus, honey. Meet me for a drink.' But her husband had picked up the phone. He works nights. And next time Gus came to see me I said, 'Boy, Gus, her husband is really sore. Stay away. He's tough, too.' Then Gus said . ,replica gucci handbags. ."
Was there no Eighteenth Street station? There was Twenty-third, Thirty-fourth. At Forty-second you changed to the IRT.
"Gus said, 'What am I afraid of? Look, I carry a gun.' He pulled out a pistol. I was flabbergasted. But it wasn't much of a gun either. I said, 'A thing like that? You couldn't shoot through a telephone book with it.' And before I knew it, he had the telephone book on a music stand and was aiming at it. That crazy sonofabitch. He was only five feet from it, and he fired. I never heard such a roar. The whole building heard. But I was right. The bullet went in only two inches. Couldn't pierce the Manhattan directory."
"Yes, a poor weapon."
"You know something about weapons?"
"Something."
"Well, you could just about wound a guy with that gun. Probably wouldn't kill unless you shot him in the head at short range. What a lot of lunatics around."
"Quite so."
"But I’m getting about two hundred bucks from insurance, which is more than the suitcase is worth, a piece of trash."
"Yes, clever business."
"Next day Gus came again and wanted me to write a recommendation for him."
"To whom?"
"To his superior in the adjuster's office."
At Ninety-sixth Street they ascended together into the full blast of Broadway. Feffer accompanied Sammler to his door.
"If you need assistance, Mr. Sammler . . ."
"I won't invite you up, Lionel. The fact is I'm feeling tired."
"It's spring. I mean it's the temperature change," said Feffer.
"Even youth is susceptible to that."
Mr. Sammler in the elevator, extracting the Yale key from his change purse. He pushed into the foyer. In honor of spring, Margotte had set forsythia in Mason jars. One jar was overturned at once. Sammler brought a roll of paper towels from the kitchen, ascertaining as he went through the house that his niece had gone out. Soaking up the spilt water, watching the absorbent paper darken, he then lifted the telephone onto the maple arm of the sofa, sat on the bandanna covers, and dialed Shula. No reply. Perhaps she had turned off her telephone. Sammler had not seen her for several days. Now a thief, she very likely was in hiding. If Eisen was actually in New York, she had an added reason for locking herself away. Sammler could not imagine, however, that Eisen would actually want to molest her. He had other irons in the fire, he had other fish to fry (how fond old Sammler was of such expressions!).
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
In the course of nature and of time Galen Albret had a daughter
In the course of nature and of time Galen Albret had a daughter, but lost a wife. It was no longer necessary for him to leave his wrong unavenged. Then began a series of baffling hindrances which resulted finally in his stooping to means repugnant to his open sense of what was due himself. At the first he could not travel to his enemy because of the child in his care; when finally he had succeeded in placing the little girl where he would be satisfied to leave her, he himself was suddenly and peremptorily called east to take a post in Rupert's Land. He could not disobey and remain in the Company, and the Company was more to him than life or revenue. The little girl he left in Sacre Coeur of Quebec; he himself took up his residence in the Hudson Bay country. After a few years, becoming lonely for his own flesh and blood, he sent for his daughter. There, as Factor, he gained a vast power, and this power he turned into the channels of his hatred. Graehme Stewart felt always against him the hand of influence. His posts in the Company's service became intolerable. At length, in indignation against continued injustice, oppression, and insult, he resigned, broken in fortune and in prospects. He became one of the earliest Free Traders on the Saskatchewan, devoting his energies to enraged opposition of the Company which had wronged him. In the space of three short years he had met a violent and striking death; for the early days of the Free Trader were adventurous. Galen Albret's revenge had struck home.
Then in after years the Factor had again met with Andrew Levoy. The man staggered into Conjuror's House late at night, He had started from Winnipeg to descend the Albany River, but had met with mishap and starvation. One by one his dogs had died. In some blind fashion he pushed on for days after his strength and sanity had left him. Mu-hi-kun had brought him in. His toes and fingers had frozen and dropped off; his face was a mask of black frost-bitten flesh, in which deep fissures opened to the raw. He had gone snow-blind. Scarcely was he recognizable as a human being.
From such a man in extremity could come nothing but the truth, so Galen Albret believed him. Before Andrew Levoy died that night he told of his deceit. The Factor left the room with the weight of a crime on his conscience. For Graehme Stewart had been innocent of any wrong toward him or his bride.
Such was the story Galen Albret saw in the little silver match-box. That was the one flaw in his consciousness of righteousness; the one instance in a long career when his ruthless acts of punishment or reprisal had not rested on rigid justice, and by the irony of fate the one instance had touched him very near. Now here before him was his enemy's son--he wondered that he had not discovered the resemblance before--and he was about to visit on him the severest punishment in his power. Was not this an opportunity vouchsafed him to repair his ancient fault, to cleanse his conscience of the one sin of the kind it would acknowledge?
But then over him swept the same blur of jealousy that had resulted in Graehme Stewart's undoing. This youth wooed his daughter; he had won her affections away. Strangely enough Galen Albret confused the new and the old; again youth cleaved to youth, leaving age apart. Age felt fiercely the desire to maintain its own. The Factor crushed the silver match-box between his great palms and looked up. His daughter lay before him, still, lifeless. Deliberately he rested his chin on his hands and contemplated her.
Then in after years the Factor had again met with Andrew Levoy. The man staggered into Conjuror's House late at night, He had started from Winnipeg to descend the Albany River, but had met with mishap and starvation. One by one his dogs had died. In some blind fashion he pushed on for days after his strength and sanity had left him. Mu-hi-kun had brought him in. His toes and fingers had frozen and dropped off; his face was a mask of black frost-bitten flesh, in which deep fissures opened to the raw. He had gone snow-blind. Scarcely was he recognizable as a human being.
From such a man in extremity could come nothing but the truth, so Galen Albret believed him. Before Andrew Levoy died that night he told of his deceit. The Factor left the room with the weight of a crime on his conscience. For Graehme Stewart had been innocent of any wrong toward him or his bride.
Such was the story Galen Albret saw in the little silver match-box. That was the one flaw in his consciousness of righteousness; the one instance in a long career when his ruthless acts of punishment or reprisal had not rested on rigid justice, and by the irony of fate the one instance had touched him very near. Now here before him was his enemy's son--he wondered that he had not discovered the resemblance before--and he was about to visit on him the severest punishment in his power. Was not this an opportunity vouchsafed him to repair his ancient fault, to cleanse his conscience of the one sin of the kind it would acknowledge?
But then over him swept the same blur of jealousy that had resulted in Graehme Stewart's undoing. This youth wooed his daughter; he had won her affections away. Strangely enough Galen Albret confused the new and the old; again youth cleaved to youth, leaving age apart. Age felt fiercely the desire to maintain its own. The Factor crushed the silver match-box between his great palms and looked up. His daughter lay before him, still, lifeless. Deliberately he rested his chin on his hands and contemplated her.
He has been showing me the ruins
He has been showing me the ruins.""I believe Mill is awfully barred in Seymour's," said Trevor. "Anybodymight have ragged his study.""That's just what I thought. He's just the sort of man the League usedto go for.""That doesn't prove that it's been revived, all the same," objectedTrevor.
"No, friend; but this does. Mill found it tied to a chair."It was a small card. It looked like an ordinary visiting card. On it,in neat print, were the words, "_With the compliments of theLeague_".
"That's exactly the same sort of card as they used to use," saidClowes. "I've seen some of them. What do you think of that?""I think whoever has started the thing is a pretty average-sized idiot.
He's bound to get caught some time or other, and then out he goes. TheOld Man wouldn't think twice about sacking a chap of that sort.""A chap of that sort," said Clowes, "will take jolly good care he isn'tcaught. But it's rather sport, isn't it?"And he went off to his study.
Next day there was further evidence that the League was an actual goingconcern. When Trevor came down to breakfast, he found a letter by hisplate. It was printed, as the card had been. It was signed "ThePresident of the League." And the purport of it was that the League didnot wish Barry to continue to play for the first fifteen.
Chapter 5 Mill Receives Visitors
Trevor's first idea was that somebody had sent the letter for ajoke,--Clowes for choice.
He sounded him on the subject after breakfast.
"Did you send me that letter?" he inquired, when Clowes came into hisstudy to borrow a _Sportsman_.
"What letter? Did you send the team for tomorrow up to the sporter? Iwonder what sort of a lot the Town are bringing.""About not giving Barry his footer colours?"Clowes was reading the paper.
"Giving whom?" he asked.
"Barry. Can't you listen?""Giving him what?""Footer colours.""What about them?"Trevor sprang at the paper, and tore it away from him. After which hesat on the fragments.
"Did you send me a letter about not giving Barry his footer colours?"Clowes surveyed him with the air of a nurse to whom the family baby hasjust said some more than usually good thing.
"Don't stop," he said, "I could listen all day."Trevor felt in his pocket for the note, and flung it at him. Clowespicked it up, and read it gravely.
"What _are_ footer colours?" he asked.
"Well," said Trevor, "it's a pretty rotten sort of joke, whoever sentit. You haven't said yet whether you did or not.""What earthly reason should I have for sending it? And I think you'remaking a mistake if you think this is meant as a joke.""You don't really believe this League rot?""You didn't see Mill's study 'after treatment'. I did. Anyhow, how doyou account for the card I showed you?""But that sort of thing doesn't happen at school.""Well, it _has_ happened, you see.""Who do you think did send the letter, then?""The President of the League.""And who the dickens is the President of the League when he's at home?""If I knew that, I should tell Mill, and earn his blessing. Not that Iwant it.""Then, I suppose," snorted Trevor, "you'd suggest that on the strengthof this letter I'd better leave Barry out of the team?""Satirically in brackets," commented Clowes.
"No, friend; but this does. Mill found it tied to a chair."It was a small card. It looked like an ordinary visiting card. On it,in neat print, were the words, "_With the compliments of theLeague_".
"That's exactly the same sort of card as they used to use," saidClowes. "I've seen some of them. What do you think of that?""I think whoever has started the thing is a pretty average-sized idiot.
He's bound to get caught some time or other, and then out he goes. TheOld Man wouldn't think twice about sacking a chap of that sort.""A chap of that sort," said Clowes, "will take jolly good care he isn'tcaught. But it's rather sport, isn't it?"And he went off to his study.
Next day there was further evidence that the League was an actual goingconcern. When Trevor came down to breakfast, he found a letter by hisplate. It was printed, as the card had been. It was signed "ThePresident of the League." And the purport of it was that the League didnot wish Barry to continue to play for the first fifteen.
Chapter 5 Mill Receives Visitors
Trevor's first idea was that somebody had sent the letter for ajoke,--Clowes for choice.
He sounded him on the subject after breakfast.
"Did you send me that letter?" he inquired, when Clowes came into hisstudy to borrow a _Sportsman_.
"What letter? Did you send the team for tomorrow up to the sporter? Iwonder what sort of a lot the Town are bringing.""About not giving Barry his footer colours?"Clowes was reading the paper.
"Giving whom?" he asked.
"Barry. Can't you listen?""Giving him what?""Footer colours.""What about them?"Trevor sprang at the paper, and tore it away from him. After which hesat on the fragments.
"Did you send me a letter about not giving Barry his footer colours?"Clowes surveyed him with the air of a nurse to whom the family baby hasjust said some more than usually good thing.
"Don't stop," he said, "I could listen all day."Trevor felt in his pocket for the note, and flung it at him. Clowespicked it up, and read it gravely.
"What _are_ footer colours?" he asked.
"Well," said Trevor, "it's a pretty rotten sort of joke, whoever sentit. You haven't said yet whether you did or not.""What earthly reason should I have for sending it? And I think you'remaking a mistake if you think this is meant as a joke.""You don't really believe this League rot?""You didn't see Mill's study 'after treatment'. I did. Anyhow, how doyou account for the card I showed you?""But that sort of thing doesn't happen at school.""Well, it _has_ happened, you see.""Who do you think did send the letter, then?""The President of the League.""And who the dickens is the President of the League when he's at home?""If I knew that, I should tell Mill, and earn his blessing. Not that Iwant it.""Then, I suppose," snorted Trevor, "you'd suggest that on the strengthof this letter I'd better leave Barry out of the team?""Satirically in brackets," commented Clowes.
Saturday, November 3, 2012
“Imogen
“Imogen,” cried the traitor, “it is in your power to reward the noblest acts of heroism that human courage can perform. Who in the midst of all the exultation and applause that triumphant rectitude can inspire, could look to a nobler prize than the condescension of your smiles and the heaven of your embraces? No, too amiable shepherdess, it is not for myself I fear; witness every action of my life; witness all those dangers that I have this moment unhesitatingly encountered, that I might fly to your arms. But, oh, when your safety is brought to hazard, I feel that I am indeed a coward. Think, my fair one, of the dangers that surround us. Let us calmly revolve, before we immediately meet them. No sooner shall we set our foot beyond this threshold, than they will commence. Tyranny is ever full of apprehensions and environed with guards. Along the gallery, and through the protracted hall, centinels are placed with every setting sun. Could you escape their observations, an hundred bolts, and an hundred massive chains secure the hinges of the impious mansion. Beyond it all will be dark, and the solitude inviolate. But suppose we meet again,— by what path to cross the wide extended glade, and to reach the only avenue that can lead us safely through this horrid cincture, will then be undiscoverable. Amid the untamed forest and untrod precipices that lie beyond, all the beasts most inimical to man reside. There the hills re-echo the tremendous roarings of the boar; the serpents hiss among the thickets; and the gaunt and hungry wolf roams for prey. Oh, Imogen, how fearful is the picture! And can your tender frame, and your timid spirits support the reality?”
Imogen had now preserved the character of heroism and fortitude for a considerable time. All the energies of her soul had been exerted to encounter the trials and surmount the difficulties which she felt to be unavoidable. When the beloved form of Edwin had appeared before her, she relaxed in some degree from the caution and vigilance she had hitherto preserved. It is the very nature of joyful surprize to unbend as it were the strings of the mind, and to throw wide the doors of unguarded confidence. Before, she had felt herself alone; she saw no resource but in her own virtue, and could lean upon no pillar but her own resolution. Now she had trusted to meet with an external support; she had poured out her heart into the bosom of him in whom she confided, and she looked to him for prudence, for suggestion and courage. But, instead of support, she had found debility, and instead of assistance the resources of her own mind were dried up, and her native fortitude was overwhelmed and depressed. She turned pale at the recital of Roderic, her knees trembled, her eyes forgot their wonted lustre, and she was immersed in the supineness and imbecility of despair.
“Edwin!”— she cried, with a tone of perturbation; but her utterance failed her. Her voice was low, hoarse, and inaudible. The fictitious shepherd supported her in his arms. Her distress was a new gratification and stimulus to her betrayer. “Edwin, ah, wherefore this fearful recital? Did you come here for no other purpose than to sink me ten times deeper in despair? Alas, I had conceived far other expectations, and far other hopes fluttered in my anxious bosom, when I first beheld your well known form. I said I have been hitherto constant and determined, though unsupported and melancholy. I shall now be triumphant. I shall experience that heaven-descended favour, which ever attends the upright. Edwin, my firm, heroic Edwin, will perform what I wished, and finish what I began. And, oh, generous and amiable shepherd, is it thus that my presages are fulfilled? No, I cannot, will not bear it. If the courage of Edwin fail, I will show him what he ought to be. If you dare not lead, think whether you dare follow whither I guide. You shall see what an injured and oppressed woman can do. Feeble and tender as we are formed by nature, you shall see that we are capable of some fortitude and some exertion.” As she said this she had risen, and was advancing towards the door. But recollecting herself with a sudden pang, “Alas,” cried she, “whither do I go?— What am I doing?— What shall I do?— Oh, Edwin!” and, falling at his feet, she embraced his knees, “do not, do no [sic] not desert me in this sad, tremendous moment!”
Imogen had now preserved the character of heroism and fortitude for a considerable time. All the energies of her soul had been exerted to encounter the trials and surmount the difficulties which she felt to be unavoidable. When the beloved form of Edwin had appeared before her, she relaxed in some degree from the caution and vigilance she had hitherto preserved. It is the very nature of joyful surprize to unbend as it were the strings of the mind, and to throw wide the doors of unguarded confidence. Before, she had felt herself alone; she saw no resource but in her own virtue, and could lean upon no pillar but her own resolution. Now she had trusted to meet with an external support; she had poured out her heart into the bosom of him in whom she confided, and she looked to him for prudence, for suggestion and courage. But, instead of support, she had found debility, and instead of assistance the resources of her own mind were dried up, and her native fortitude was overwhelmed and depressed. She turned pale at the recital of Roderic, her knees trembled, her eyes forgot their wonted lustre, and she was immersed in the supineness and imbecility of despair.
“Edwin!”— she cried, with a tone of perturbation; but her utterance failed her. Her voice was low, hoarse, and inaudible. The fictitious shepherd supported her in his arms. Her distress was a new gratification and stimulus to her betrayer. “Edwin, ah, wherefore this fearful recital? Did you come here for no other purpose than to sink me ten times deeper in despair? Alas, I had conceived far other expectations, and far other hopes fluttered in my anxious bosom, when I first beheld your well known form. I said I have been hitherto constant and determined, though unsupported and melancholy. I shall now be triumphant. I shall experience that heaven-descended favour, which ever attends the upright. Edwin, my firm, heroic Edwin, will perform what I wished, and finish what I began. And, oh, generous and amiable shepherd, is it thus that my presages are fulfilled? No, I cannot, will not bear it. If the courage of Edwin fail, I will show him what he ought to be. If you dare not lead, think whether you dare follow whither I guide. You shall see what an injured and oppressed woman can do. Feeble and tender as we are formed by nature, you shall see that we are capable of some fortitude and some exertion.” As she said this she had risen, and was advancing towards the door. But recollecting herself with a sudden pang, “Alas,” cried she, “whither do I go?— What am I doing?— What shall I do?— Oh, Edwin!” and, falling at his feet, she embraced his knees, “do not, do no [sic] not desert me in this sad, tremendous moment!”
“I won’t shut up
“I won’t shut up,” Fanny cried excitedly back at him; rising also. “And what’s more I won’t stay here and have you making love under my very eyes to a woman that’s no better than she ought to be.”
She meant to say more, but Hosmer grasped her arm with such a grasp, that had it been her throat she would never have spoken more. The other hand went to his pocket, with fingers clutching the clasp knife there.
“By heaven-I’ll-kill you!” every word weighted with murder, panted close in her terrified face. What she would have uttered died upon her pale lips, when her frightened eyes beheld the usually calm face of her husband distorted by a passion of which she had not dreamed.
“David,” she faltered, “let go my arm.”
Her voice broke the spell that held him, and brought him again to his senses. His fingers slowly relaxed their tense hold. A sigh that was something between a moan and a gasp came with his deliverance and shook him. All the horror now was in his own face as he seized his hat and hurried speechless away.
Fanny remained for a little while dazed. Hers was not the fine nature that would stay cruelly stunned after such a scene. Her immediate terror being past, the strongest resultant emotion was one of self-satisfaction at having spoken out her mind.
But there was a stronger feeling yet, moving and possessing her; crowding out every other. A pressing want that only Sampson’s coming would relieve, and which bade fair to drive her to any extremity if it were not appeased.
Part 2 Chapter 15 A Fateful Solution
Hosmer passed the day with a great pain at his heart. His hasty and violent passion of the morning had added another weight for his spirit to drag about, and which he could not cast off. No feeling of resentment remained with him; only wonder at his wife’s misshapen knowledge and keen self-rebuke of his own momentary forgetfulness. Even knowing Fanny as he did, he could not rid himself of the haunting dread of having wounded her nature cruelly. He felt much as a man who in a moment of anger inflicts an irreparable hurt upon some small, weak, irresponsible creature, and must bear regret for his madness. The only reparation that lay within his power-true, one that seemed inadequate-was an open and manly apology and confession of wrong. He would feel better when it was made. He would perhaps find relief in discovering that the wound he had inflicted was not so deep-so dangerous as he feared.
With such end in view he came home early in the afternoon. His wife was not there. The house was deserted. Even the servants had disappeared. It took but a moment for him to search the various rooms and find them one after the other, unoccupied. He went out on the porch and looked around. The raw air chilled him. The wind was blowing violently, bringing dashes of rain along with it from massed clouds that hung leaden between sky and earth. Could she have gone over to the house? It was unlikely, for he knew her to have avoided Mrs. Lafirme of late, with a persistence that had puzzled him to seek its cause, which had only fully revealed itself in the morning Yet, where else could she be? An undefined terror was laying hold of him. His sensitive nature, in exaggerating its own heartlessness, was blindly overestimating the delicacy of hers. To what may he not have driven her? What hitherto untouched chord may he not have started into painful quivering? Was it for him to gauge the endurance of a woman’s spirit? Fanny was not now the wife whom he hated; his own act of the morning had changed her into the human being, the weak creature whom he had wronged.
She meant to say more, but Hosmer grasped her arm with such a grasp, that had it been her throat she would never have spoken more. The other hand went to his pocket, with fingers clutching the clasp knife there.
“By heaven-I’ll-kill you!” every word weighted with murder, panted close in her terrified face. What she would have uttered died upon her pale lips, when her frightened eyes beheld the usually calm face of her husband distorted by a passion of which she had not dreamed.
“David,” she faltered, “let go my arm.”
Her voice broke the spell that held him, and brought him again to his senses. His fingers slowly relaxed their tense hold. A sigh that was something between a moan and a gasp came with his deliverance and shook him. All the horror now was in his own face as he seized his hat and hurried speechless away.
Fanny remained for a little while dazed. Hers was not the fine nature that would stay cruelly stunned after such a scene. Her immediate terror being past, the strongest resultant emotion was one of self-satisfaction at having spoken out her mind.
But there was a stronger feeling yet, moving and possessing her; crowding out every other. A pressing want that only Sampson’s coming would relieve, and which bade fair to drive her to any extremity if it were not appeased.
Part 2 Chapter 15 A Fateful Solution
Hosmer passed the day with a great pain at his heart. His hasty and violent passion of the morning had added another weight for his spirit to drag about, and which he could not cast off. No feeling of resentment remained with him; only wonder at his wife’s misshapen knowledge and keen self-rebuke of his own momentary forgetfulness. Even knowing Fanny as he did, he could not rid himself of the haunting dread of having wounded her nature cruelly. He felt much as a man who in a moment of anger inflicts an irreparable hurt upon some small, weak, irresponsible creature, and must bear regret for his madness. The only reparation that lay within his power-true, one that seemed inadequate-was an open and manly apology and confession of wrong. He would feel better when it was made. He would perhaps find relief in discovering that the wound he had inflicted was not so deep-so dangerous as he feared.
With such end in view he came home early in the afternoon. His wife was not there. The house was deserted. Even the servants had disappeared. It took but a moment for him to search the various rooms and find them one after the other, unoccupied. He went out on the porch and looked around. The raw air chilled him. The wind was blowing violently, bringing dashes of rain along with it from massed clouds that hung leaden between sky and earth. Could she have gone over to the house? It was unlikely, for he knew her to have avoided Mrs. Lafirme of late, with a persistence that had puzzled him to seek its cause, which had only fully revealed itself in the morning Yet, where else could she be? An undefined terror was laying hold of him. His sensitive nature, in exaggerating its own heartlessness, was blindly overestimating the delicacy of hers. To what may he not have driven her? What hitherto untouched chord may he not have started into painful quivering? Was it for him to gauge the endurance of a woman’s spirit? Fanny was not now the wife whom he hated; his own act of the morning had changed her into the human being, the weak creature whom he had wronged.
For awhile there was silence between us
For awhile there was silence between us, then Leo said —“Do you remember, Horace, when we lay upon the Rocking Stone where her cloak fell upon me —” as he said the words the breath caught in his throat —“how the ray of light was sent to us in farewell, and to show us a path of escape from the Place of Death? Now I think that it has been sent again in greeting to point out the path to the Place of Life where Ayesha dwells, whom we have lost awhile.”
“It may be so,” I answered shortly, for the matter was beyond speech or argument, beyond wonder even. But I knew then, as I know now that we were players in some mighty, predestined drama; that our parts were written and we must speak them, as our path was prepared and we must tread it to the end unknown. Fear and doubt were left behind, hope was sunk in certainty; the fore-shadowing visions of the night had found an actual fulfilment and the pitiful seed of the promise of her who died, growing unseen through all the cruel, empty years, had come to harvest.
No, we feared no more, not even when with the dawn rose the roaring wind, through which we struggled down the mountain slopes, as it would seem in peril of our lives at every step; not even as hour by hour we fought our way onwards through the whirling snow-storm, that made us deaf and blind. For we knew that those lives were charmed. We could not see or hear, yet we were led. Clinging to the yak, we struggled downward and homewards, till at length out of the turmoil and the gloom its instinct brought us unharmed to the door of the monastery, where the old abbot embraced us in his joy, and the monks put up prayers of thanks. For they were sure that we must be dead. Through such a storm, they said, no man had ever lived before.
It was still mid-winter, and oh! the awful weariness of those months of waiting. In our hands was the key, yonder amongst those mountains lay the door, but not yet might we set that key within its lock. For between us and these stretched the great desert, where the snow rolled like billows, and until that snow melted we dared not attempt its passage. So we sat in the monastery, and schooled our hearts to patience.
Still even to these frozen wilds of Central Asia spring comes at last. One evening the air felt warm, and that night there were only a few degrees of frost. The next the clouds banked up, and in the morning not snow was falling from them, but rain, and we found the old monks preparing their instruments of husbandry, as they said that the season of sowing was at hand. For three days it rained, while the snows melted before our eyes. On the fourth torrents of water were rushing down the mountain and the desert was once more brown and bare, though not for long, for within another week it was carpeted with flowers. Then we knew that the time had come to start.
“But whither go you? Whither go you?” asked the old abbot in dismay. “Are you not happy here? Do you not make great strides along the Path, as may be known by your pious conversation? Is not everything that we have your own? Oh! why would you leave us?”
“It may be so,” I answered shortly, for the matter was beyond speech or argument, beyond wonder even. But I knew then, as I know now that we were players in some mighty, predestined drama; that our parts were written and we must speak them, as our path was prepared and we must tread it to the end unknown. Fear and doubt were left behind, hope was sunk in certainty; the fore-shadowing visions of the night had found an actual fulfilment and the pitiful seed of the promise of her who died, growing unseen through all the cruel, empty years, had come to harvest.
No, we feared no more, not even when with the dawn rose the roaring wind, through which we struggled down the mountain slopes, as it would seem in peril of our lives at every step; not even as hour by hour we fought our way onwards through the whirling snow-storm, that made us deaf and blind. For we knew that those lives were charmed. We could not see or hear, yet we were led. Clinging to the yak, we struggled downward and homewards, till at length out of the turmoil and the gloom its instinct brought us unharmed to the door of the monastery, where the old abbot embraced us in his joy, and the monks put up prayers of thanks. For they were sure that we must be dead. Through such a storm, they said, no man had ever lived before.
It was still mid-winter, and oh! the awful weariness of those months of waiting. In our hands was the key, yonder amongst those mountains lay the door, but not yet might we set that key within its lock. For between us and these stretched the great desert, where the snow rolled like billows, and until that snow melted we dared not attempt its passage. So we sat in the monastery, and schooled our hearts to patience.
Still even to these frozen wilds of Central Asia spring comes at last. One evening the air felt warm, and that night there were only a few degrees of frost. The next the clouds banked up, and in the morning not snow was falling from them, but rain, and we found the old monks preparing their instruments of husbandry, as they said that the season of sowing was at hand. For three days it rained, while the snows melted before our eyes. On the fourth torrents of water were rushing down the mountain and the desert was once more brown and bare, though not for long, for within another week it was carpeted with flowers. Then we knew that the time had come to start.
“But whither go you? Whither go you?” asked the old abbot in dismay. “Are you not happy here? Do you not make great strides along the Path, as may be known by your pious conversation? Is not everything that we have your own? Oh! why would you leave us?”
Friday, November 2, 2012
You should have taken this to the Administrator
"You should have taken this to the Administrator," said Sanders, "and it should bear his signature."
"There's the letter," said the man shortly. "If that's not enough, and the signature of the Secretary of State isn't sufficient, I'm going straight back to England and tell him so."
"You may go to the devil and tell him so," said Sanders calmly; "but you do not pass into these Territories until I have received telegraphic authority from my chief. Bones, take this man to your hut, and let your people do what they can for him." And he turned and walked into the house.
"You shall hear about this," said Mr. Corklan, picking up his baggage.
"This way, dear old pilgrim," said Bones.
"Who's going to carry my bag?"
"Your name escapes me," said Bones, "but, if you'll glance at your visitin' card, you will find the name of the porter legibly inscribed."
Sanders compressed the circumstances into a hundred-word telegram worded in his own economical style.
It happened that the Administrator was away on a shooting trip, and it was his cautious secretary who replied--
"Administration to Sanders.--Duplicate authority here. Let Corklan proceed at own risk. Warn him dangers."
"You had better go along and tell him," said Sanders. "He can leave at once, and the sooner the better."
Bones delivered the message. The man was sitting on his host's bed, and the floor was covered with cigar ash. Worst abomination of all, was a large bottle of whisky, which he had produced from one of his bags, and a reeking glass, which he had produced from Bones's sideboard.
"So I can go to-night, can I?" said Mr. Corklan. "That's all right. Now, what about conveyance, hey?"
Bones had now reached the stage where he had ceased to be annoyed, and when he found some interest in the situation. "What sort of conveyance would you like, sir?" he asked curiously.
(If you can imagine him pausing half a bar before every "sir," you may value its emphasis.)
"Isn't there a steamer I can have?" demanded the man. "Hasn't Sanders got a Government steamer?"
"Pardon my swooning," said Bones, sinking into a chair.
"Well, how am I going to get up?" asked the man.
"Are you a good swimmer?" demanded Bones innocently.
"Look here," said Mr. Corklan, "you aren't a bad fellow. I rather like you."
"I'm sorry," said Bones simply.
"I rather like you," repeated Mr. Corklan. "You might give me a little help."
"It is very unlikely that I shall," said Bones. "But produce your proposition, dear old adventurer."
"That is just what I am," said the other. He bit off the end of another cigar and lit it with the glowing butt of the old one. "I have knocked about all over the world, and I have done everything. I've now a chance of making a fortune. There is a tribe here called the N'gombi. They live in a wonderful rubber country, and I am told that they have got all the ivory in the world, and stacks of rubber hidden away."
Now, it is a fact--and Bones was surprised to hear it related by the stranger--that the N'gombi are great misers and hoarders of elephant tusks. For hundreds of years they have traded ivory and rubber, and every village has its secret storehouse. The Government had tried for years to wheedle the N'gombi into depositing their wealth in some State store, for riches mean war sooner or later. They lived in great forests--the word N'gombi means "interior"--in lands full of elephants and rich in rubber trees.
"There's the letter," said the man shortly. "If that's not enough, and the signature of the Secretary of State isn't sufficient, I'm going straight back to England and tell him so."
"You may go to the devil and tell him so," said Sanders calmly; "but you do not pass into these Territories until I have received telegraphic authority from my chief. Bones, take this man to your hut, and let your people do what they can for him." And he turned and walked into the house.
"You shall hear about this," said Mr. Corklan, picking up his baggage.
"This way, dear old pilgrim," said Bones.
"Who's going to carry my bag?"
"Your name escapes me," said Bones, "but, if you'll glance at your visitin' card, you will find the name of the porter legibly inscribed."
Sanders compressed the circumstances into a hundred-word telegram worded in his own economical style.
It happened that the Administrator was away on a shooting trip, and it was his cautious secretary who replied--
"Administration to Sanders.--Duplicate authority here. Let Corklan proceed at own risk. Warn him dangers."
"You had better go along and tell him," said Sanders. "He can leave at once, and the sooner the better."
Bones delivered the message. The man was sitting on his host's bed, and the floor was covered with cigar ash. Worst abomination of all, was a large bottle of whisky, which he had produced from one of his bags, and a reeking glass, which he had produced from Bones's sideboard.
"So I can go to-night, can I?" said Mr. Corklan. "That's all right. Now, what about conveyance, hey?"
Bones had now reached the stage where he had ceased to be annoyed, and when he found some interest in the situation. "What sort of conveyance would you like, sir?" he asked curiously.
(If you can imagine him pausing half a bar before every "sir," you may value its emphasis.)
"Isn't there a steamer I can have?" demanded the man. "Hasn't Sanders got a Government steamer?"
"Pardon my swooning," said Bones, sinking into a chair.
"Well, how am I going to get up?" asked the man.
"Are you a good swimmer?" demanded Bones innocently.
"Look here," said Mr. Corklan, "you aren't a bad fellow. I rather like you."
"I'm sorry," said Bones simply.
"I rather like you," repeated Mr. Corklan. "You might give me a little help."
"It is very unlikely that I shall," said Bones. "But produce your proposition, dear old adventurer."
"That is just what I am," said the other. He bit off the end of another cigar and lit it with the glowing butt of the old one. "I have knocked about all over the world, and I have done everything. I've now a chance of making a fortune. There is a tribe here called the N'gombi. They live in a wonderful rubber country, and I am told that they have got all the ivory in the world, and stacks of rubber hidden away."
Now, it is a fact--and Bones was surprised to hear it related by the stranger--that the N'gombi are great misers and hoarders of elephant tusks. For hundreds of years they have traded ivory and rubber, and every village has its secret storehouse. The Government had tried for years to wheedle the N'gombi into depositing their wealth in some State store, for riches mean war sooner or later. They lived in great forests--the word N'gombi means "interior"--in lands full of elephants and rich in rubber trees.
The boy could not master their names
The boy could not master their names; so they were obliged reciprocally to announce themselves —“Count O’Halloran and Lord Colambre.” The names seemed to make no impression on the old gentleman; but he deliberately looked at the count and his lordship, as if studying what rather than who they were. In spite of the red night-cap, and a flowered dressing-gown, Mr. Reynolds looked like a gentleman, an odd gentleman — but still a gentleman.
As Count O’Halloran came into the room, and as his large dog attempted to follow, the count’s look expressed —
“Say, shall I let him in, or shut the door?”
“Oh, let him in, by all means, sir, if you please! I am fond of dogs; and a finer one I never saw: pray, gentlemen, be seated,” said he — a portion of the complacency, inspired by the sight of the dog, diffusing itself over his manner towards the master of so fine an animal, and even extending to the master’s companion, though in an inferior degree. Whilst Mr. Reynolds stroked the dog, the count told him that “the dog was of a curious breed, now almost extinct — the Irish greyhound; only one nobleman in Ireland, it is said, has a few of the species remaining in his possession — Now, lie down, Hannibal,” said the count. “Mr. Reynolds, we have taken the liberty, though strangers, of waiting upon you —”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” interrupted Mr. Reynolds; “but did I understand you rightly, that a few of the same species are still to be had from one nobleman in Ireland? Pray, what is his name?” said he, taking out his pencil.
The count wrote the name for him, but observed, that “he had asserted only that a few of these dogs remained in the possession of that nobleman; he could not answer for it that they were to be had.”
“Oh, I have ways and means,” said old Reynolds; and, rapping his snuff-box, and talking, as it was his custom, loud to himself, “Lady Dashfort knows all those Irish lords: she shall get one for me — ay! ay!”
Count O’Halloran replied, as if the words had been addressed to him, “Lady Dashfort is in England.”
“I know it, sir; she is in London,” said Mr. Reynolds, hastily. “What do you know of her?”
“I know, sir, that she is not likely to return to Ireland, and that I am; and so is my young friend here: and if the thing can be accomplished, we will get it done for you.”
Lord Colambre joined in this promise, and added, that, “if the dog could be obtained, he would undertake to have him safely sent over to England.”
“Sir — gentlemen! I’m much obliged; that is, when you have done the thing I shall be much obliged. But, may be, you are only making me civil speeches!”
“Of that, sir,” said the count, smiling with much temper, “your own sagacity and knowledge of the world must enable you to judge.”
“For my own part, I can only say,” cried Lord Colambre, “that I am not in the habit of being reproached with saying one thing and meaning another.”
“Hot! I see,” said old Reynolds, nodding as he looked at Lord Colambre: “Cool!” added he, nodding at the count. “But a time for every thing; I was hot once: both answers good for their ages.”
As Count O’Halloran came into the room, and as his large dog attempted to follow, the count’s look expressed —
“Say, shall I let him in, or shut the door?”
“Oh, let him in, by all means, sir, if you please! I am fond of dogs; and a finer one I never saw: pray, gentlemen, be seated,” said he — a portion of the complacency, inspired by the sight of the dog, diffusing itself over his manner towards the master of so fine an animal, and even extending to the master’s companion, though in an inferior degree. Whilst Mr. Reynolds stroked the dog, the count told him that “the dog was of a curious breed, now almost extinct — the Irish greyhound; only one nobleman in Ireland, it is said, has a few of the species remaining in his possession — Now, lie down, Hannibal,” said the count. “Mr. Reynolds, we have taken the liberty, though strangers, of waiting upon you —”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” interrupted Mr. Reynolds; “but did I understand you rightly, that a few of the same species are still to be had from one nobleman in Ireland? Pray, what is his name?” said he, taking out his pencil.
The count wrote the name for him, but observed, that “he had asserted only that a few of these dogs remained in the possession of that nobleman; he could not answer for it that they were to be had.”
“Oh, I have ways and means,” said old Reynolds; and, rapping his snuff-box, and talking, as it was his custom, loud to himself, “Lady Dashfort knows all those Irish lords: she shall get one for me — ay! ay!”
Count O’Halloran replied, as if the words had been addressed to him, “Lady Dashfort is in England.”
“I know it, sir; she is in London,” said Mr. Reynolds, hastily. “What do you know of her?”
“I know, sir, that she is not likely to return to Ireland, and that I am; and so is my young friend here: and if the thing can be accomplished, we will get it done for you.”
Lord Colambre joined in this promise, and added, that, “if the dog could be obtained, he would undertake to have him safely sent over to England.”
“Sir — gentlemen! I’m much obliged; that is, when you have done the thing I shall be much obliged. But, may be, you are only making me civil speeches!”
“Of that, sir,” said the count, smiling with much temper, “your own sagacity and knowledge of the world must enable you to judge.”
“For my own part, I can only say,” cried Lord Colambre, “that I am not in the habit of being reproached with saying one thing and meaning another.”
“Hot! I see,” said old Reynolds, nodding as he looked at Lord Colambre: “Cool!” added he, nodding at the count. “But a time for every thing; I was hot once: both answers good for their ages.”
The village of Jumburu stands on the edge of the bush country
The village of Jumburu stands on the edge of the bush country, where the lawless men of all nations dwell. This territory is filled with fierce communities, banded together against a common enemy--the law. They call this land the B'wigini, which means "the Nationless," and Jumburu's importance lies in the fact that it is the outpost of order and discipline.
In Jumburu were two brothers, O'ka and B'suru, who had usurped the chieftainship of their uncle, the very famous K'sungasa, "very famous," since he had been in his time a man of remarkable gifts, which he still retained to some extent, and in consequence enjoyed what was left of life.
He was, by all accounts, as mad as a man could be, and in circumstances less favourable to himself his concerned relatives would have taken him a long journey into the forest he loved so well, and they would have put out his eyes and left him to the mercy of the beasts, such being the method of dealing with lunacy amongst people who, all unknown to themselves, were eugenists of a most inflexible kind.
But to leave K'sungasa to the beasts would have been equivalent to delivering him to the care of his dearest friends, for he had an affinity for the wild dwellers of the bush, and all his life he had lived amongst them and loved them.
It is said that he could arrest the parrot in the air by a "cl'k!" and could bring the bird screeching and fluttering to his hand. He could call the shy little monkeys from the high branches where they hid, and even the fiercest of buffaloes would at his word come snuffling and nosing his brown arm.
So that, when he grew weak-minded, his relatives, after a long palaver, decided that for once the time-honoured customs of the land should be overridden, and since there was no other method of treating the blind but that prescribed by precedent, he should be allowed to live in a great hut at the edge of the village with his birds and snakes and wild cats, and that the direction of village affairs should pass to his nephews.
Mr. Commissioner Sanders knew all this, but did nothing. His task was to govern the territory, which meant to so direct affairs that the territory governed itself. When the fate of K'sungasa was in the balance, he sent word to the chief's nephews that he was somewhere in the neighbourhood, and that the revival of the bad old custom of blinding would be followed by the introduction of the bad new custom of hanging; but this had less effect upon the council of relatives--to whom Sanders's message was not transmitted--than the strange friendship which K'sungasa had for the forest folk.
The nephews might have governed the village, exacted tribute, apportioned fishing rights, and administered justice for all time, but for the fact that there came a period of famine, when crops were bad and fish was scarce, and when, remarkably enough, the village of L'bini, distant no more than a few hours' paddling, had by a curious coincident raised record crops, and had, moreover, a glut of fish in their waters.
There was the inevitable palaver and the inevitable solution. O'ka and B'suru led ten canoes to the offending village, slaughtered a few men and burnt a few huts. For two hours the combatants pranced and yelled and thrust at one another amidst a pandemonium of screaming women, and then Lieutenant Tibbetts dropped from the clouds with a most substantial platoon of Houssas, and there was a general sorting out.
In Jumburu were two brothers, O'ka and B'suru, who had usurped the chieftainship of their uncle, the very famous K'sungasa, "very famous," since he had been in his time a man of remarkable gifts, which he still retained to some extent, and in consequence enjoyed what was left of life.
He was, by all accounts, as mad as a man could be, and in circumstances less favourable to himself his concerned relatives would have taken him a long journey into the forest he loved so well, and they would have put out his eyes and left him to the mercy of the beasts, such being the method of dealing with lunacy amongst people who, all unknown to themselves, were eugenists of a most inflexible kind.
But to leave K'sungasa to the beasts would have been equivalent to delivering him to the care of his dearest friends, for he had an affinity for the wild dwellers of the bush, and all his life he had lived amongst them and loved them.
It is said that he could arrest the parrot in the air by a "cl'k!" and could bring the bird screeching and fluttering to his hand. He could call the shy little monkeys from the high branches where they hid, and even the fiercest of buffaloes would at his word come snuffling and nosing his brown arm.
So that, when he grew weak-minded, his relatives, after a long palaver, decided that for once the time-honoured customs of the land should be overridden, and since there was no other method of treating the blind but that prescribed by precedent, he should be allowed to live in a great hut at the edge of the village with his birds and snakes and wild cats, and that the direction of village affairs should pass to his nephews.
Mr. Commissioner Sanders knew all this, but did nothing. His task was to govern the territory, which meant to so direct affairs that the territory governed itself. When the fate of K'sungasa was in the balance, he sent word to the chief's nephews that he was somewhere in the neighbourhood, and that the revival of the bad old custom of blinding would be followed by the introduction of the bad new custom of hanging; but this had less effect upon the council of relatives--to whom Sanders's message was not transmitted--than the strange friendship which K'sungasa had for the forest folk.
The nephews might have governed the village, exacted tribute, apportioned fishing rights, and administered justice for all time, but for the fact that there came a period of famine, when crops were bad and fish was scarce, and when, remarkably enough, the village of L'bini, distant no more than a few hours' paddling, had by a curious coincident raised record crops, and had, moreover, a glut of fish in their waters.
There was the inevitable palaver and the inevitable solution. O'ka and B'suru led ten canoes to the offending village, slaughtered a few men and burnt a few huts. For two hours the combatants pranced and yelled and thrust at one another amidst a pandemonium of screaming women, and then Lieutenant Tibbetts dropped from the clouds with a most substantial platoon of Houssas, and there was a general sorting out.
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