ï»¿The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Woggle-Bug Book, by L. Frank Baum,Illustrated by Ike MorganThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost andwithalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook oronline at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: The Woggle-Bug BookAuthor: L. Frank BaumRelease Date: June 23, 2007  [eBook #21914]Language: EnglishCharacter setencoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WOGGLE-BUG BOOK***E-text prepared by Michael Gray(Lost_Gamer@comcast.net)Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this      file which includes the original illustrations.      See 21914-h.htm or 21914-h.zip:      (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/1/9/1/21914/21914-h/21914-h.htm)      or      (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/1/9/1/21914/21914-h.zip)THEWOGGLE-BUG BOOKbyL. FRANK BAUMPictures by Ike MorganChicagoThe Reilly & Britton Co.1905Copyright1905byL. Frank BaumEvery Right ReservedThe UniqueAdventures of the WOGGLE-BUGONE day Mr. H. M. Woggle-Bug, T. E., becoming separated from hiscomrades who had accompanied him from the Land of Oz,and finding thattime hung heavy on his hands (he had four of them), decided to walkdown the Main street of the City and try to discover something or otherofinterest.The initials "H. M." before his name meant "Highly Magnified," for thisWoggle-Bug was several thousand times bigger than any other woggle-bugyou eversaw. And the initials "T. E." after his named meant "ThoroughlyEducated"--and so he was, in the Land of Oz. But his education, beingapplied to a woggle-bugintellect, was not at all remarkable in thiscountry, where everything is quite different than Oz. Yet theWoggle-Bug did not suspect this, and being, like so manyother thoroughlyeducated persons, proud of his mental attainments, he marched along thestreet with an air of importance that made one wonder whatgreatthoughts were occupying his massive brain.Being about as big, in his magnified state, as a man, the Woggle-Bugtook care to clothe himself like a man; only,instead of choosing sobercolors for his garments, he delighted in the most gorgeous reds andyellows and blues and greens; so that if you looked at him longthebrilliance of his clothing was liable to dazzle your eyes.I suppose the Waggle-Bug did not realize at all what a queer appearancehe made. Being rather nervous,he seldom looked into a mirror; and asthe people he met avoided telling him he was unusual, he had falleninto the habit of considering himself merely an ordinarycitizen of thebig city wherein he resided.So the Woggle-Bug strutted proudly along the street, swinging a cane inone hand, flourishing a pink handkerchief in theother, fumbling hiswatch-fob with another, and feeling his necktie was straight withanother. Having four hands to use would prove rather puzzling to you orme, Iimagine; but the Woggie-Bug was thoroughly accustomed to them.Presently he came to a very fine store with big plate-glass windows,and standing in the centerof the biggest window was a creature sobeautiful and radiant and altogether charming that the first glance ather nearly took his breath away. Her complexion waslovely, for it waswax; but the thing which really caught the Woggle-Bug's fancy was themarvelous dress she wore. Indeed, it was the latest (last year's)Parismodel, although the Woggle-Bug did not know that; and the designer musthave had a real woggly love for bright colors, for the gown was made ofred clothcovered with big checks which were so loud the fashion bookscalled them "Wagnerian Plaids."Never had our friend the Woggle-Bug seen such a beautiful gownbefore,and it afflicted him so strongly that he straightaway fell in love withthe entire outfit--even to the wax-complexioned lady herself! Verypolitely he tipped histo her; but she stared coldly back without inany way acknowledging the courtesy."Never mind," he thought; "'faint heart never won fair lady.' And I'mdeterminedto win this kaliedoscope of beauty or perish in theattempt!" You will notice that our insect had a way of using big wordsto express himself, which leads us tosuspect that the school system inOz is the same they employ in Boston.As, with swelling heart, the Woggle-Bug feasted his eyes upon theenchanting vision, asmall green tag that was attached to a button ofthe waist suddenly attracted his attention. Upon the tag was marked:"Price $7.93--GREATLY REDUCED.""Ah!"murmured the Woggle-Bug; "my darling is in greatly reducedcircumstances, and $7.93 will make her mine! Where, oh where, shall Ifind the seven ninety-threewherewith to liberate this divinity andmake her Mrs. Woggle-Bug?""Move on!" said a gruff policeman, who came along swinging his club.And the Woggle-Bugobediently moved on, his brain working fast andfurious in the endeavor to think of a way to procure seven dollars andninety-three cents.You see, in the Land ofOz they use no money at all, so that when theWoggle-Bug arrived in America he did not possess a single penny. And noone had presented him with any moneysince."Yet there must be several ways to procure money in this country," hereflected; "for otherwise everybody would be as penniless as I am. Buthow, I wonder,do they manage to get it?"Just then he came along a side street where a number of men were atwork digging a long and deep ditch in which to lay a newsewer."Now these men," thought the Woggle-Bug, "must get money for shovelingall that earth, else they wouldn't do it. Here is my chance to win thecharmingvision of beauty in the shop window!"Seeking out the foreman, he asked for work, and the foreman agreed tohire him."How much do you pay these workmen?"asked the highly magnified one."Two dollars a day," answered the foreman."Then," said the Woggle-Bug, "you must pay me four dollars a day; for Ihave fourarms to their two, and can do double their work.""If that is so, I'll pay you four dollars," agreed the man.The Woggle-Bug was delighted."In two days," he toldhimself, as he threw off his brilliant coat andplaced his hat upon it, and rolled up his sleeves; "in two days I canearn eight dollars--enough to purchase my greatlyreduced darling andbuy her seven cents worth of caramels besides."He seized two spades and began working so rapidly with his four armsthat the foreman said:"You must have been forewarned.""Why?" asked the Insect."Because there's a saying that to be forewarned is to be four-armed,"replied the other."That isnonsense," said the Woggle-Bug, digging with all his might;"for they call you the foreman, and yet I only see one of you.""Ha, ha!" laughed the man, and he wasso proud of his new worker thathe went into the corner saloon to tell his friend the barkeeper what atreasure he had found.It was just after noon that theWoggle-Bug hired as a ditch-digger inorder to win his heart's desire; so at noon on the second day he quitwork, and having received eight silver dollars he put onhis coat andrushed away to the store that he might purchase his intended bride.But, alas for the uncertainty of all our hopes! Just as the Woggle-Bugreached thedoor he saw a lady coming out of the store dressed inidentical checks with which he had fallen in love!At first he did not know what to do or say, for the younglady'scomplexion was not wax--far from it. But a glance into the windowshowed him the wax lady now dressed in a plain black tailor-made suit,and at once heknew the wearer of the Wagnerian plaids was his reallove, and not the stiff creature behind the glass."Beg pardon!" he exclaimed, stopping the young lady; "butyou're mine.Here's the seven ninety-three, and seven cents for candy."But she glanced at him in a haughty manner, and walked away with hernose slightlyelevated.He followed. He could not do otherwise with those delightful checksshining before him like beacon-lights to urge him on.The young lady stepped into acar, which whirled away rapidly. For amoment he was nearly paralyzed at his loss; then he started after thecar as fast as he could go, and this was very fastindeed--he being awoggle-bug.Somebody cried: "Stop, thief!" and a policeman ran out to arrest him.But the Woggle-Bug used his four hands to push the officeraside, andthe astonished man went rolling into the gutter so recklessly that hisuniform bore marks of the encounter for many days.Still keeping an eye on thecar, the Woggle-Bug rushed on. Hefrightened two dogs, upset a fat gentleman who was crossing the street,leaped over an automobile that shot in front of him,and finally ranplump into the car, which had abruptly stopped to let off a passenger.Breathing hard from his exertions, he jumped upon the rear platform ofthecar, only to see his charmer step off at the front and walkmincingly up the steps of a house. Despite his fatigue, he flew afterher at once, crying out:"Stop, myvariegated dear--stop! Don't you know you're mine?"But she slammed the door in his face, and he sat down upon the stepsand wiped his forehead with his pinkhandkerchief and fanned himselfwith his hat and tried to think what he should do next.Presently a very angry man came out of the house. He had a revolverinone hand and a carving-knife in the other."What do you mean by insulting my wife?" he demanded."Was that your wife?" asked the Woggle-Bug, in meekastonishment."Of course it is my wife," answered the man."Oh, I didn't know," said the insect, rather humbled. "But I'll giveyou seven ninety-three for her. That'sall she's worth, you know; for Isaw it marked on the tag."The man gave a roar of rage and jumped into the air with the intentionof falling on the Woggle-Bug andhurting him with the knife and pistol.But the Woggle-Bug was suddenly in a hurry, and didn't wait to bejumped on. Indeed, he ran so very fast that the man wascontent to lethim go, especially as the pistol wasn't loaded and the carving-knifewas as dull as such knives usually are.But his wife had conceived a great dislikefor the Wagnerian checkcostume that had won for her the Woggle-Bug's admiration. "I'll neverwear it again!" she said to her husband, when he came in and toldherthat the Woggle-Bug was gone."Then," he replied, "you'd better give it to Bridget; for she's beenbothering me about her wages lately, and the present willkeep herquite for a month longer."So she called Bridget and presented her with the dress, and thedelighted servant decided to wear it that night to MickeySchwartz'sball.Now the poor Woggle-Bug, finding his affection scorned, was feelingvery blue and unhappy that evening, When he walked out, dressed(amongother things) in a purple-striped shirt, with a yellow necktie andpea-green gloves, he looked a great deal more cheerful than he reallywas. He had put onanother hat, for the Woggle-Bug had a superstitionthat to change his hat was to change his luck, and luck seemed to haveoverlooked the fact that he was inexistence.The hat may really have altered his fortunes, as the Insect shortly metIkey Swanson, who gave him a ticket to Mickey Schwartz's ball; forIkey's cleandickey had not come home from the laundry, and so he couldnot go himself.The Woggle-Bug, thinking to distract his mind from his dreams of love,attended thehall, and the first thing he saw as he entered the roomwas Bridget clothed in that same gorgeous gown of Wagnerian plaid thathad so fascinated his bugly


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Villette, by Charlotte BrontÃ«This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.netTitle: VilletteAuthor: Charlotte BrontÃ«Posting Date: August 23, 2010 [EBook #9182]Release Date: October, 2005First Posted: September12, 2003[Last updated: March 2, 2016]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VILLETTE ***Produced by Delphine Lettau, CharlesFranks and Distributed ProofreadersVILLETTE.BYCHARLOTTE BRONTÃ.CONTENTSCHAPTER       I.  BRETTON      II.  PAULINA     III.  THEPLAYMATES      IV.  MISS MARCHMONT       V.  TURNING A NEW LEAF      VI.  LONDON     VII.  VILLETTE    VIII.  MADAME BECK      IX.  ISIDORE       X.  DR.JOHN      XI.  THE PORTRESS'S CABINET     XII.  THE CASKET    XIII.  A SNEEZE OUT OF SEASON     XIV.  THE FÃTE      XV.  THE LONGVACATION     XVI.  AULD LANG SYNE    XVII.  LA TERRASSE   XVIII.  WE QUARREL     XIX.  THE CLEOPATRA      XX.  THECONCERT     XXI.  REACTION    XXII.  THE LETTER   XXIII.  VASHTI    XXIV.  M. DE BASSOMPIERRE     XXV.  THE LITTLE COUNTESS    XXVI.  ABURIAL   XXVII.  THE HÃTEL CRÃCY  XXVIII.  THE WATCHGUARD    XXIX.  MONSIEUR'S FÃTE     XXX.  M. PAUL    XXXI.  THE DRYAD   XXXII.  THE FIRSTLETTER  XXXIII.  M. PAUL KEEPS HIS PROMISE   XXXIV.  MALEVOLA    XXXV.  FRATERNITY   XXXVI.  THE APPLE OF DISCORD  XXXVII.  SUNSHINEXXXVIII.  CLOUD   XXXIX.  OLD AND NEW ACQUAINTANCE      XL.  THE HAPPY PAIR     XLI.  FAUBOURG CLOTILDE    XLII.  FINISVILLETTE.CHAPTERI.BRETTON.My godmother lived in a handsome house in the clean and ancient town ofBretton. Her husband's family had been residents there for generations,andbore, indeed, the name of their birthplace--Bretton of Bretton:whether by coincidence, or because some remote ancestor had been apersonage of sufficientimportance to leave his name to hisneighbourhood, I know not.When I was a girl I went to Bretton about twice a year, and well Iliked the visit. The house and itsinmates specially suited me. Thelarge peaceful rooms, the well-arranged furniture, the clear widewindows, the balcony outside, looking down on a fine antiquestreet,where Sundays and holidays seemed always to abide--so quiet was itsatmosphere, so clean its pavement--these things pleased me well.One child in ahousehold of grown people is usually made very much of,and in a quiet way I was a good deal taken notice of by Mrs. Bretton,who had been left a widow, withone son, before I knew her; herhusband, a physician, having died while she was yet a young andhandsome woman.She was not young, as I remember her, butshe was still handsome, tall,well-made, and though dark for an Englishwoman, yet wearing always theclearness of health in her brunette cheek, and its vivacity ina pairof fine, cheerful black eyes. People esteemed it a grievous pity thatshe had not conferred her complexion on her son, whose eyes wereblue--though, even inboyhood, very piercing--and the colour of hislong hair such as friends did not venture to specify, except as the sunshone on it, when they called it golden. Heinherited the lines of hismother's features, however; also her good teeth, her stature (or thepromise of her stature, for he was not yet full-grown), and, whatwasbetter, her health without flaw, and her spirits of that tone andequality which are better than a fortune to the possessor.In the autumn of the year ---- I wasstaying at Bretton; my godmotherhaving come in person to claim me of the kinsfolk with whom was at thattime fixed my permanent residence. I believe she thenplainly sawevents coming, whose very shadow I scarce guessed; yet of which thefaint suspicion sufficed to impart unsettled sadness, and made me gladto changescene and society.Time always flowed smoothly for me at my godmother's side; not withtumultuous swiftness, but blandly, like the gliding of a full riverthrough aplain. My visits to her resembled the sojourn of Christianand Hopeful beside a certain pleasant stream, with "green trees on eachbank, and meadows beautifiedwith lilies all the year round." The charmof variety there was not, nor the excitement of incident; but I likedpeace so well, and sought stimulus so little, that whenthe latter cameI almost felt it a disturbance, and wished rather it had still heldaloof.One day a letter was received of which the contents evidently causedMrs.Bretton surprise and some concern. I thought at first it was fromhome, and trembled, expecting I know not what disastrous communication:to me, however, noreference was made, and the cloud seemed to pass.The next day, on my return from a long walk, I found, as I entered mybedroom, an unexpected change. In,addition to my own French bed in itsshady recess, appeared in a corner a small crib, draped with white; andin addition to my mahogany chest of drawers, I saw atiny rosewoodchest. I stood still, gazed, and considered."Of what are these things the signs and tokens?" I asked. The answerwas obvious. "A second guest iscoming: Mrs. Bretton expects othervisitors."On descending to dinner, explanations ensued. A little girl, I wastold, would shortly be my companion: the daughterof a friend anddistant relation of the late Dr. Bretton's. This little girl, it wasadded, had recently lost her mother; though, indeed, Mrs. Bretton erelong subjoined,the loss was not so great as might at first appear.Mrs. Home (Home it seems was the name) had been a very pretty, but agiddy, careless woman, who hadneglected her child, and disappointedand disheartened her husband. So far from congenial had the unionproved, that separation at last ensued--separation bymutual consent,not after any legal process. Soon after this event, the lady havingover-exerted herself at a ball, caught cold, took a fever, and diedafter a verybrief illness. Her husband, naturally a man of verysensitive feelings, and shocked inexpressibly by too suddencommunication of the news, could hardly, it seems,now be persuaded butthat some over-severity on his part--some deficiency in patience andindulgence--had contributed to hasten her end. He had brooded overthisidea till his spirits were seriously affected; the medical men insistedon travelling being tried as a remedy, and meanwhile Mrs. Bretton hadoffered to takecharge of his little girl. "And I hope," added mygodmother in conclusion, "the child will not be like her mamma; assilly and frivolous a little flirt as ever sensibleman was weak enoughto marry. For," said she, "Mr. Home _is_ a sensible man in his way,though not very practical: he is fond of science, and lives half hislife in alaboratory trying experiments--a thing his butterfly wifecould neither comprehend nor endure; and indeed" confessed mygodmother, "I should not have liked itmyself."In answer to a question of mine, she further informed me that her latehusband used to say, Mr. Home had derived this scientific turn from amaternaluncle, a French savant; for he came, it seems; of mixed Frenchand Scottish origin, and had connections now living in France, of whommore than one wrote _de_before his name, and called himself noble.That same evening at nine o'clock, a servant was despatched to meet thecoach by which our little visitor was expected.Mrs. Bretton and I satalone in the drawing-room waiting her coming; John Graham Bretton beingabsent on a visit to one of his schoolfellows who lived in thecountry.My godmother read the evening paper while she waited; I sewed. It was awet night; the rain lashed the panes, and the wind sounded angryandrestless."Poor child!" said Mrs. Bretton from time to time. "What weather forher journey! I wish she were safe here."A little before ten the door-bell announcedWarren's return. No soonerwas the door opened than I ran down into the hall; there lay a trunkand some band-boxes, beside them stood a person like anurse-girl, andat the foot of the staircase was Warren with a shawled bundle in hisarms."Is that the child?" I asked."Yes, miss."I would have opened the shawl,and tried to get a peep at the face, butit was hastily turned from me to Warren's shoulder."Put me down, please," said a small voice when Warren openedthedrawing-room door, "and take off this shawl," continued the speaker,extracting with its minute hand the pin, and with a sort of fastidioushaste doffing theclumsy wrapping. The creature which now appeared madea deft attempt to fold the shawl; but the drapery was much too heavyand large to be sustained orwielded by those hands and arms. "Give itto Harriet, please," was then the direction, "and she can put it away."This said, it turned and fixed its eyes on Mrs.Bretton."Come here, little dear," said that lady. "Come and let me see if youare cold and damp: come and let me warm you at the fire."The child advancedpromptly. Relieved of her wrapping, she appearedexceedingly tiny; but was a neat, completely-fashioned little figure,light, slight, and straight. Seated on mygodmother's ample lap, shelooked a mere doll; her neck, delicate as wax, her head of silky curls,increased, I thought, the resemblance.Mrs. Bretton talked in littlefond phrases as she chafed the child'shands, arms, and feet; first she was considered with a wistful gaze,but soon a smile answered her. Mrs. Bretton was notgenerally acaressing woman: even with her deeply-cherished son, her manner wasrarely sentimental, often the reverse; but when the small strangersmiled ather, she kissed it, asking, "What is my little one's name?""Missy.""But besides Missy?""Polly, papa calls her.""Will Polly be content to live with me?""Not _always_;but till papa comes home. Papa is gone away." She shookher head expressively."He will return to Polly, or send for her.""Will he, ma'am? Do you know he will?""Ithink so.""But Harriet thinks not: at least not for a long while. He is ill."Her eyes filled. She drew her hand from Mrs. Bretton's and made amovement to leave herlap; it was at first resisted, but shesaid--"Please, I wish to go: I can sit on a stool."She was allowed to slip down from the knee, and taking a footstool, shecarriedit to a corner where the shade was deep, and there seatedherself. Mrs. Bretton, though a commanding, and in grave matters even aperemptory woman, wasoften passive in trifles: she allowed the childher way. She said to me, "Take no notice at present." But I did takenotice: I watched Polly rest her small elbow onher small knee, herhead on her hand; I observed her draw a square inch or two ofpocket-handkerchief from the doll-pocket of her doll-skirt, and then Iheard herweep. Other children in grief or pain cry aloud, withoutshame or restraint; but this being wept: the tiniest occasional snifftestified to her emotion. Mrs. Bretton didnot hear it: which was quiteas well. Ere long, a voice, issuing from the corner, demanded--"May thebell be rung for Harriet!"I rang; the nurse was summoned andcame."Harriet, I must be put to bed," said her little mistress. "You mustask where my bed is."Harriet signified that she had already made that inquiry."Ask if yousleep with me, Harriet.""No, Missy," said the nurse: "you are to share this young lady's room,"designating me.Missy did not leave her seat, but I saw her eyes


ï»¿Project Gutenberg's Search the Sky, by Frederik Pohl and C. M. KornbluthThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and mostotherparts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms ofthe Project GutenbergLicense included with this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.org.  If you are not located in the United States, you'll haveto check the laws of the country whereyou are located before using this ebook.Title: Search the SkyAuthor: Frederik Pohl        C. M. KornbluthRelease Date: June 3, 2016 [EBook #52228]Language:EnglishCharacter set encoding: UTF-8*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SEARCH THE SKY ***                  By Frederik Pohl and C. M.Kornbluth                         _THE SPACE MERCHANTS_                            _SEARCH THESKY_------------------------------------------------------------------------                               SEARCHTHE                                  SKY                                   by                             Frederik Pohl                                  and                            C. M.Kornbluth                      BALLANTINE BOOKS Â· NEW YORK------------------------------------------------------------------------                          COPYRIGHT, 1954,BY                   FREDERIK POHL AND C. M. KORNBLUTH             LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGUE CARD NO. 54-6478                PRINTED IN THE UNITEDSTATES OF AMERICA                         BALLANTINE BOOKS, INC.                  404 Fifth Avenue, New York 18, N.Y.                  ------------------------------------                           TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE                   Extensive research did not uncover                  any evidencethat the U.S. copyright                    on this publication wasrenewed.------------------------------------------------------------------------                               SEARCH THE                                  SKY..... 1DECAY.Ross stoodon the tradersâ ramp, overlooking the Yards, and the wordkept bobbing to the top of his mind.Decay.About all of Halseyâs Planet there was theimperceptible reek of decay.The clean, big, bustling, efficient spaceport only made the sensationstronger. From where he stood on the height of the Ramp, hecould seethe Yards, the spires of Halsey City ten kilometers awayâand thetumble-down gray acres of Ghost Town between.Ross wrinkled his nose. Hewasnât a man given to brooding, but the scentof decay had saturated his nostrils that morning. He had tossed andturned all the night, wrestling with adecision. And he had got upearly, so early that the only thing that made sense was to walk to work.And that meant walking through Ghost Town. He hadnâtdone that in a longtime, not since childhood. Ghost Town was a wonderful place to play.âTag,â âFollow My Fuehrer,â âSenators andPresidentââall the ancientgames took on new life when you could dodge and turn among crumblingruins, dart down unmarked lanes, gallop throughsagging shacks where youmight stir out a screeching, unexpected recluse.But it was clear thatâin the fifteen years between childhood games and atroubledmanâs walk to workâGhost Town had grown.Everybody knew that! Ask the right specialists, and theyâd tell you howmuch and how fast. An acre ayear, a street a month, a block a week, thespecialists would twinkle at you, convinced that the acre, street, blockwas under control, since they could measureit.Ask the right specialists and they would tell you why it was happening.One answer per specialist, with an ironclad guarantee that there wouldbe no overlappingof replies. âA purely psychological phenomenon, Mr.Ross. A vibration of the pendulum toward greater municipal compactness,a huddling, a maturerecognition of the facts of interdependence,basically a step forward....ââA purely biological phenomenon, Mr. Ross. Falling birth rate due tobiochemicaldeficiency of trace elements processed out of our planetarydiet. Fortunately the situation has been recognized in time and my billbefore the Chamber willprovide....ââA purely technological problem, Mr. Ross. Maintenance of a sprawlingcity is inevitably less efficient than that of a compact unit.Inevitablythere has been a drift back to the central areas and theconvenience of air-conditioned walkways, winterized plazas....âYes. It was a purelypsychological-biological-technological-educational-demographic problem, and it was basically a step forward.Ross wondered how many Ghost Towns laycorpselike on the surface ofHalseyâs Planet. Decay, he thought. Decay.But it had nothing to do with his problem, the problem that had kept himawake all thenight, the problem that blighted the view before him now.The trading bell clanged. The dayâs work began.For Ross it might be his last dayâs work at theYards.                  *       *       *       *       *He walked slowly from the ramp to the offices of the Oldham TradingCorporation. âMorning, Ross boy,â hisbreezy young boss greeted him.Charles Oldham IVâs father had always taken a paternal attitude towardhis help, and Charles Oldham IV was not going tochange anything thatDaddy had done. He shook Rossâs hand at the door of the suite andapologized because they hadnât been able to find a newsecretary for himyet. Theyâd been looking for two weeks, but the three applicants theyhad been able to dredge up had all been hopeless. âItâs thedamnChamber,â said Charles Oldham IV, winsomely gesturing with his hands toshow how helpless men of affairs were against the blunderinginterference ofGovernment. âDamn labor shortage is nothing but a damnartificial scarcity crisis. Daddy saw it; he knew it was coming.âRoss almost told him he wasquitting, but held back. Maybe it wasbecause he didnât want to spoil Oldhamâs day with bad news, right on topof the opening bell. Or maybe it wasbecause, in spite of a sleeplessnight, he still wasnât quite sure.The morningâs work helped him to become sure. It was the same monotonousgrind.Threefreighters had arrived at dawn from Halseyâs third moon, but noneof them was any affair of his. There was an export shipment of jewelryand watches to beattended to, but the ship was not to take off foranother week. It scarcely classified as urgent. Ross worked on themanifests for a couple of hours, stared throughhis window for an hour,and then it was time for lunch.Little Marconi hailed him as he passed through the tradersâ lounge.Of all the juniors on the Exchange,Marconi was the one Ross foundeasiest to take. He was lean and dark where Ross was solid and fair;worse, he stood four ranks above Ross in seniority. But, sinceRossworked for Oldham, and Marconi worked for Haarlandâs, the differencecould be waived in social intercourse.Ross suspected that, to Marconi as to him,trading was only a jobâa dullone, and not a crusade. And he knew that Marconiâs reading was notconfined to bills of lading. âLunch?â askedMarconi. âSure,â Ross said.And he knew heâd probably spill his secret to the little man fromHaarlandâs.The skyroom wascrowdedâcomparatively. All eight of the usual tableswere taken; they pushed on into the roped-off area by the windows andfound a table overlooking theYards. Marconi blew dust off his chair.âBeen a long time since this was used,â he grumbled. âDrink?â He raisedhis eyebrows when Ross nodded.It made a break; Marconi was the oneusually who had a drink with lunch, Ross never touched it.When the drinks came, each of them said to the other inperfectsynchronism: âIâve got something to tell you.âThey looked startledâthen laughed. âGo ahead,â said Ross.The little man didnâteven argue. Rapturously he drew a photo out of hispocket.God, thought Ross wearily, Lurline again! He studied the picture with ashow of interest. âNewsnap?â he asked brightly. âLovely girlâââ Then henoticed the inscription: _To my fiance, with crates of love._ âWell!â hesaid,âFiance, is it? Congratulations, Marconi!âMarconi was almost drooling on the photo. âNext month,â he said happily.âA big, big wedding. Forkeeps, Rossâfor keeps. With children!âRoss made an expression of polite surprise. âYou donât say!â he said.âItâs all down in blackand white! She agrees to have two children inthe first five yearsâno permissive clause, a straight guarantee. Fifteenhundred annual allowance per child. And,Ross, do you know what? Herlawyer told her right in front of me that she ought to ask for threethousand, and she told him, âNo, Mr. Turek. I happen to be inlove.â Howdo you like that, Ross?ââA girl in a million,â Ross said feebly. His private thoughts were thatMarconi had been gaffed and netted like asugar perch. Lurline was ofthe Old Landowners, who didnât own anything much but land these days,and Marconi was an undersized nobody who happened tomake a very goodliving. Sure she happened to be in love. Smartest thing she could be. Ofcourse, promising to have children sounded pretty special; butthepapers were full of those things every day. Marconi could reliably becounted on to hang himself. Heâd promise her breakfast in bed everythird week end,or the maid that he couldnât possibly find on the labormarket, and the courts would throw all the promises on both sides out ofthe contract as a matter ofsimple equity. But the marriage would stick,all right.Marconi had himself a final moist, fatuous sigh and returned the phototo his pocket. âAnd now,â heasked brightly, craning his neck for thewaiter, âwhatâs your news?âRoss sipped his drink, staring out at the nuzzling freighters in theirhemisphericalslips. He said abruptly, âI might be on one of those nextweek. Fallonâs got a purserâs berth open.âMarconi forgot the waiter and gaped.âQuitting?ââIâve got to do something!â Ross exploded. His own voice scared him;there was a knife blade of hysteria in the sound of it. Hegripped theedge of the table and forced himself to be calm and deliberate.Marconi said tardily, âEasy, Ross.ââEasy! Youâve said it, Marconi:âEasy.â Everythingâs so damned easy andso damned boring that Iâm just about ready to blow! Iâve got to dosomething,â he repeated.âIâm getting nowhere! I push papers around andthen I push them back again. You know what happens next. You get softand paunchy. You find yourselfgoing by the book instead of by yourhead. Youâre covered, if you go by the bookâno matter what happens. Andyou might just as well bedead!ââNow, RossââââNow, hell!â Ross flared. âMarconi, I swear I think thereâs somethingwrong with me! Look, take GhostTown for instance. Ever wonder whynobody lives there, except a couple of crazy old hermits?ââWhy, itâs Ghost Town,â Marconi explained.


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Tale of Two Bad Mice, by Beatrix PotterThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost norestrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: The Tale of Two Bad MiceAuthor: Beatrix PotterRelease Date: March 31, 2014 [EBook #45264]Language: English*** START OF THISPROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TALE OF TWO BAD MICE ***Produced by David Edwards, Emmy and the Online DistributedProofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.net (This file wasproduced from images generously made available by TheInternet Archive)THE TALE OF TWO BAD MICE    FOR    =W. M. L.W.=    THE LITTLE GIRL    WHO HAD THE DOLL'S HOUSE[Illustration]    THE TALE OF    TWO BAD MICE    BY    BEATRIX POTTER    _Author of    'The Tale ofPeter Rabbit,' &c._    [Illustration]    LONDON    FREDERICK WARNE AND CO.    AND NEW YORK    1904    [_All rights reserved_]    COPYRIGHT1904    BY    FREDERICK WARNE & CO.    ENTERED AT STATIONERS' HALL.[Illustration]ONCE upon a time there was a very beautiful doll's-house; it was redbrickwith white windows, and it had real muslin curtains and a frontdoor and a chimney.IT belonged to two Dolls called Lucinda and Jane; at least it belongedtoLucinda, but she never ordered meals.Jane was the Cook; but she never did any cooking, because the dinnerhad been bought ready-made, in a box full ofshavings.[Illustration][Illustration]THERE were two red lobsters and a ham, a fish, a pudding, and somepears and oranges.They would not come off the plates,but they were extremely beautiful.ONE morning Lucinda and Jane had gone out for a drive in the doll'sperambulator. There was no one in the nursery, and it wasvery quiet.Presently there was a little scuffling, scratching noise in a cornernear the fire-place, where there was a hole under the skirting-board.Tom Thumb putout his head for a moment, and then popped it in again.Tom Thumb was a mouse.[Illustration][Illustration]A MINUTE afterwards, Hunca Munca, his wife, put herhead out, too; andwhen she saw that there was no one in the nursery, she ventured out onthe oilcloth under the coal-box.THE doll's-house stood at the other sideof the fire-place. Tom Thumband Hunca Munca went cautiously across the hearthrug. They pushed thefront door--it was not fast.[Illustration][Illustration]TOMTHUMB and Hunca Munca went upstairs and peeped into thedining-room. Then they squeaked with joy!Such a lovely dinner was laid out upon the table! Therewere tinspoons, and lead knives and forks, and two dolly-chairs--all _so_convenient!TOM THUMB set to work at once to carve the ham. It was a beautifulshinyyellow, streaked with red.The knife crumpled up and hurt him; he put his finger in his mouth."It is not boiled enough; it is hard. You have a try, HuncaMunca."[Illustration][Illustration]HUNCA MUNCA stood up in her chair, and chopped at the ham with anotherlead knife."It's as hard as the hams at thecheesemonger's," said Hunca Munca.THE ham broke off the plate with a jerk, and rolled under the table."Let it alone," said Tom Thumb; "give me some fish,Hunca Munca!"[Illustration][Illustration]HUNCA MUNCA tried every tin spoon in turn; the fish was glued to thedish.Then Tom Thumb lost his temper. He put theham in the middle of thefloor, and hit it with the tongs and with the shovel--bang, bang,smash, smash!The ham flew all into pieces, for underneath the shinypaint it wasmade of nothing but plaster!THEN there was no end to the rage and disappointment of Tom Thumb andHunca Munca. They broke up the pudding, thelobsters, the pears and theoranges.As the fish would not come off the plate, they put it into the red-hotcrinkly paper fire in the kitchen; but it would not burneither.[Illustration][Illustration]TOM THUMB went up the kitchen chimney and looked out at the top--therewas no soot.WHILE Tom Thumb was up the chimney,Hunca Munca had anotherdisappointment. She found some tiny canisters upon the dresser,labelled--Rice--Coffee--Sago--but when she turned them upsidedown,there was nothing inside except red and blue beads.[Illustration][Illustration]THEN those mice set to work to do all the mischief theycould--especially TomThumb! He took Jane's clothes out of the chest ofdrawers in her bedroom, and he threw them out of the top floor window.But Hunca Munca had a frugal mind.After pulling half the feathers outof Lucinda's bolster, she remembered that she herself was in want of afeather bed.WITH Tom Thumb's assistance she carried thebolster downstairs, andacross the hearth-rug. It was difficult to squeeze the bolster into themouse-hole; but they managed itsomehow.[Illustration][Illustration]THEN Hunca Munca went back and fetched a chair, a book-case, abird-cage, and several small odds and ends. The book-caseand thebird-cage refused to go into the mouse-hole.HUNCA MUNCA left them behind the coal-box, and went to fetch a cradle.[Illustration][Illustration]HUNCAMUNCA was just returning with another chair, when suddenly therewas a noise of talking outside upon the landing. The mice rushed backto their hole, and thedolls came into the nursery.WHAT a sight met the eyes of Jane and Lucinda!Lucinda sat upon the upset kitchen stove and stared; and Jane leantagainst thekitchen dresser and smiled--but neither of them made anyremark.[Illustration][Illustration]THE book-case and the bird-cage were rescued from underthecoal-box--but Hunca Munca has got the cradle, and some of Lucinda'sclothes.SHE also has some useful pots and pans, and several otherthings.[Illustration][Illustration]THE little girl that the doll's-house belonged to, said,--"I will geta doll dressed like a policeman!"BUT the nurse said,--"I will set amouse-trap!"[Illustration]SO that is the story of the two Bad Mice,--but they were not so veryvery naughty after all, because Tom Thumb paid for everything hebroke.He found a crooked sixpence under the hearthrug; and upon ChristmasEve, he and Hunca Munca stuffed it into one of the stockings of LucindaandJane.[Illustration][Illustration]AND very early every morning--before anybody is awake--Hunca Muncacomes with her dust-pan and her broom to sweep theDollies' house!    THE END.    PRINTED BY    EDMUND EVANS,    THE RACQUET COURT PRESS,    LONDON, S.E.End of Project Gutenberg's The Tale of Two BadMice, by Beatrix Potter*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TALE OF TWO BAD MICE ******** This file should be named 45264.txt or 45264.zip*****This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:        http://www.gutenberg.org/4/5/2/6/45264/Produced by David Edwards, Emmy and theOnline DistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file wasproduced from images generously made available by TheInternet Archive)Updatededitions will replace the previous one--the old editionswill be renamed.Creating the works from public domain print editions means that noone owns a UnitedStates copyright in these works, so the Foundation(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States withoutpermission and without paying copyrightroyalties.  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ï»¿Project Gutenberg's The Tale of Ginger and Pickles, by Beatrix PotterThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.netTitle: The Tale of Ginger and PicklesAuthor: Beatrix PotterRelease Date: February 2, 2005 [EBook #14877]Language: English*** START OFTHIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TALE OF GINGER AND PICKLES ***Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Melissa Er-Raqabi and the PG OnlineDistributedProofreading Team.THE TALE OF GINGER AND PICKLESDEDICATEDWITH VERY KIND REGARDS TO OLD MR. JOHN TAYLOR,WHO "THINKS HE MIGHT PASS AS ADORMOUSE!" (THREE YEARS IN BED AND NEVER A GRUMBLE!)[Illustration]THE TALE OF GINGER & PICKLESBY BEATRIX POTTER_Author of "The Tale of PeterRabbit," &c._[Illustration]FREDERICK WARNE1909 by Frederick Warne & Co.Printed and bound in Great Britain byWilliam Clowes Limited, Beccles andLondon[Illustration]Once upon a time there was a village shop. The name over the window was"Ginger and Pickles."It was a little small shop just the right size forDolls--Lucinda and JaneDoll-cook always bought their groceries at Ginger and Pickles.The counter inside was a convenient height for rabbits. Ginger andPicklessold red spotty pocket-handkerchiefs at a penny three farthings.They also sold sugar, and snuff and galoshes.In fact, although it was such a small shop it soldnearlyeverything--except a few things that you want in a hurry--like bootlaces,hair-pins and mutton chops.Ginger and Pickles were the people who kept the shop.Ginger was a yellowtom-cat, and Pickles was a terrier.The rabbits were always a little bit afraid of Pickles.[Illustration][Illustration]The shop was also patronizedby mice--only the mice were rather afraid ofGinger.Ginger usually requested Pickles to serve them, because he said it madehis mouth water."I cannot bear," saidhe, "to see them going out at the door carryingtheir little parcels.""I have the same feeling about rats," replied Pickles, "but it wouldnever do to eat our owncustomers; they would leave us and go to TabithaTwitchit's.""On the contrary, they would go nowhere," replied Ginger gloomily.(Tabitha Twitchit kept the onlyother shop in the village. She did notgive credit.)[Illustration][Illustration]Ginger and Pickles gave unlimited credit.Now the meaning of "credit" is this--when acustomer buys a bar of soap,instead of the customer pulling out a purse and paying for it--she saysshe will pay another time.And Pickles makes a low bow andsays, "With pleasure, madam," and it iswritten down in a book.The customers come again and again, and buy quantities, in spite of beingafraid of Ginger andPickles.But there is no money in what is called the "till."[Illustration][Illustration]The customers came in crowds every day and bought quantities, especiallythetoffee customers. But there was always no money; they never paid foras much as a pennyworth of peppermints.But the sales were enormous, ten times as largeas Tabitha Twitchit's.[Illustration]As there was always no money, Ginger and Pickles were obliged to eattheir own goods.Pickles ate biscuits and Ginger ate a driedhaddock.They ate them by candle-light after the shop was closed.[Illustration]When it came to Jan. 1st there was still no money, and Pickles was unableto buy adog licence."It is very unpleasant, I am afraid of the police," said Pickles."It is your own fault for being a terrier; _I_ do not require a licence,and neither doesKep, the Collie dog.""It is very uncomfortable, I am afraid I shall be summoned. I have triedin vain to get a licence upon credit at the Post Office;" saidPickles."The place is full of policemen. I met one as I was coming home.""Let us send in the bill again to Samuel Whiskers, Ginger, he owes 22/9for bacon.""I donot believe that he intends to pay at all," replied Ginger.[Illustration]"And I feel sure that Anna Maria pockets things--Where are all the creamcrackers?""You haveeaten them yourself," replied Ginger.[Illustration]Ginger and Pickles retired into the back parlour.They did accounts. They added up sums and sums, andsums."Samuel Whiskers has run up a bill as long as his tail; he has had anounce and three-quarters of snuff since October.""What is seven pounds of butter at1/3, and a stick of sealing wax andfour matches?""Send in all the bills again to everybody 'with comp'ts,'" replied Ginger.[Illustration][Illustration]After a timethey heard a noise in the shop, as if something had beenpushed in at the door. They came out of the back parlour. There was anenvelope lying on the counter,and a policeman writing in a note-book!Pickles nearly had a fit, he barked and he barked and made little rushes."Bite him, Pickles! bite him!" spluttered Gingerbehind a sugar-barrel,"he's only a German doll!"The policeman went on writing in his notebook; twice he put his pencil inhis mouth, and once he dipped it in thetreacle.Pickles barked till he was hoarse. But still the policeman took no notice.He had bead eyes, and his helmet was sewed on with stitches.[Illustration]Atlength on his last little rush--Pickles found that the shop was empty.The policeman had disappeared.But the envelope remained.[Illustration][Illustration]"Do youthink that he has gone to fetch a real live policeman? I am afraidit is a summons," said Pickles."No," replied Ginger, who had opened the envelope, "it is the ratesandtaxes, Â£3 19 11-3/4.""This is the last straw," said Pickles, "let us close the shop."They put up the shutters, and left. But they have not removed fromtheneighbourhood. In fact some people wish they had gone further.[Illustration]Ginger is living in the warren. I do not know what occupation he pursues;he looksstout and comfortable.[Illustration][Illustration]Pickles is at present a gamekeeper.[Illustration]The closing of the shop caused great inconvenience. TabithaTwitchitimmediately raised the price of everything a half-penny; and she continuedto refuse to give credit.Of course there are the trades-men's carts--thebutcher, the fish-man andTimothy Baker.But a person cannot live on "seed wigs" and sponge-cake andbutter-buns--not even when the sponge-cake is as good asTimothy's![Illustration]After a time Mr. John Dormouse and his daughter began to sell peppermintsand candles.But they did not keep "self-fitting sixes"; and ittakes five mice tocarry one seven inch candle.[Illustration][Illustration]Besides--the candles which they sell behave very strangely inwarmweather.[Illustration]And Miss Dormouse refused to take back the ends when they were broughtback to her with complaints.And when Mr. John Dormousewas complained to, he stayed in bed, and wouldsay nothing but "very snug;" which is not the way to carry on a retailbusiness.[Illustration][Illustration]Soeverybody was pleased when Sally Henny Penny sent out a printed posterto say that she was going to re-open the shop--"Henny's Opening Sale!Grandco-operative Jumble! Penny's penny prices! Come buy, come try, comebuy!"The poster really was most 'ticing.[Illustration]There was a rush upon the openingday. The shop was crammed withcustomers, and there were crowds of mice upon the biscuit canisters.Sally Henny Penny gets rather flustered when she tries tocount outchange, and she insists on being paid cash; but she is quite harmless.[Illustration]And she has laid in a remarkable assortment of bargains.There issomething to please everybody.End of Project Gutenberg's The Tale of Ginger and Pickles, by Beatrix Potter*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THETALE OF GINGER AND PICKLES ******** This file should be named 14877-8.txt or 14877-8.zip *****This and all associated files of various formats will be foundin:        http://www.gutenberg.net/1/4/8/7/14877/Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Melissa Er-Raqabi and the PG OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team.Updatededitions will replace the previous one--the old editionswill be renamed.Creating the works from public domain print editions means that noone owns a UnitedStates copyright in these works, so the Foundation(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States withoutpermission and without paying copyrightroyalties.  Special rules,set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply tocopying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works toprotectthe PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark.  ProjectGutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if youcharge for the eBooks, unless youreceive specific permission.  If youdo not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with therules is very easy.  You may use this eBook for nearly anypurposesuch as creation of derivative works, reports, performances andresearch.  They may be modified and printed and given away--you may dopracticallyANYTHING with public domain eBooks.  Redistribution issubject to the trademark license, especially commercialredistribution.*** START: FULL LICENSE ***THEFULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSEPLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORKTo protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promotingthe freedistribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "ProjectGutenberg"), you agreeto comply with all the terms of the Full ProjectGutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online athttp://gutenberg.net/license).Section 1.  General Terms ofUse and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tmelectronic works1.A.  By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tmelectronic work, you indicate that youhave read, understand, agree toand accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property(trademark/copyright) agreement.  If you do not agree to abideby allthe terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroyall copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.If you paid afee for obtaining a copy of or access to a ProjectGutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by theterms of this agreement, you may obtaina refund from the person orentity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.1.B.  "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark.  It may onlybeused on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people whoagree to be bound by the terms of this agreement.  There are a fewthings that you cando with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic workseven without complying with the full terms of this agreement.  Seeparagraph 1.C below.  There are a lot ofthings you can do with ProjectGutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreementand help preserve free future access to ProjectGutenberg-tm electronicworks.  See paragraph 1.E below.1.C.  The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation"or PGLAF), owns acompilation copyright in the collection of ProjectGutenberg-tm electronic works.  Nearly all the individual works in thecollection are in the public domain in theUnited States.  If anindividual work is in the public domain in the United States and you arelocated in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent youfromcopying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivativeworks based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenbergare removed.  Of


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg eBook, Ruth, by Elizabeth Cleghorn GaskellThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: RuthAuthor: Elizabeth Cleghorn GaskellRelease Date: December 26, 2001  [eBook #4275]Most recently updated March 1,2008Language: English***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RUTH***E-text prepared by Charles Aldarondoand revised by Joseph E. Loewenstein,M.D.RUTHbyELIZABETH GASKELLFirst published in book form by Chapman and Hall in 1853CONTENTS        I. The Dressmaker's Apprentice at Work       II. RuthGoes to the Shire-Hall      III. Sunday at Mrs Mason's       IV. Treading in Perilous Places        V. In North Wales       VI. Troubles Gather About Ruth      VII. TheCrisis--Watching and Waiting     VIII. Mrs Bellingham "Does the Thing Handsomely"       IX. The Storm-Spirit Subdued        X. A Note and the Answer       XI.Thurstan and Faith Benson      XII. Losing Sight of the Welsh Mountains     XIII. The Dissenting Minister's Household      XIV. Ruth's First Sunday atEccleston       XV. Mother and Child      XVI. Sally Tells of Her Sweethearts, and Discourses           on the Duties of Life     XVII. Leonard's Christening    XVIII.Ruth Becomes a Governess in Mr Bradshaw's Family      XIX. After Five Years       XX. Jemima Refuses to Be Managed      XXI. Mr Farquhar's AttentionsTransferred     XXII. The Liberal Candidate and His Precursor    XXIII. Recognition     XXIV. The Meeting on the Sands      XXV. Jemima Makes aDiscovery     XXVI. Mr Bradshaw's Virtuous Indignation    XXVII. Preparing to Stand on the Truth   XXVIII. An Understanding Between Lovers     XXIX. Sally TakesHer Money Out of the Bank      XXX. The Forged Deed     XXXI. An Accident to the Dover Coach    XXXII. The Bradshaw Pew Again Occupied   XXXIII. A Mother toBe Proud Of    XXXIV. "I Must Go and Nurse Mr Bellingham"     XXXV. Out of Darkness into Light    XXXVI. The End   Drop, drop, slow tears!   And bathe thosebeauteous feet,   Which brought from heaven   The news and Prince of peace.   Cease not, wet eyes,   For mercy to entreat:   To cry for vengeance   Sin dothnever cease.   In your deep floods   Drown all my faults and fears;   Nor let His eye   See sin, but through my tears.   _Phineas Fletcher_CHAPTER ITheDressmaker's Apprentice at WorkThere is an assize-town in one of the eastern counties which was muchdistinguished by the Tudor sovereigns, and, inconsequence of theirfavour and protection, attained a degree of importance that surprisesthe modern traveller.A hundred years ago its appearance was that ofpicturesque grandeur.The old houses, which were the temporary residences of such of thecounty-families as contented themselves with the gaieties of aprovincialtown, crowded the streets and gave them the irregular butnoble appearance yet to be seen in the cities of Belgium. The sidesof the streets had a quaint richness,from the effect of the gables,and the stacks of chimneys which cut against the blue sky above;while, if the eye fell lower down, the attention was arrested byallkinds of projections in the shape of balcony and oriel; and it wasamusing to see the infinite variety of windows that had been crammedinto the walls long beforeMr Pitt's days of taxation. The streetsbelow suffered from all these projections and advanced stories above;they were dark, and ill-paved with large, round, joltingpebbles, andwith no side-path protected by kerb-stones; there were no lamp-postsfor long winter nights; and no regard was paid to the wants of themiddle class,who neither drove about in coaches of their own, norwere carried by their own men in their own sedans into the veryhalls of their friends. The professional menand their wives, theshopkeepers and their spouses, and all such people, walked about atconsiderable peril both night and day. The broad unwieldycarriageshemmed them up against the houses in the narrow streets. Theinhospitable houses projected their flights of steps almost into thecarriage-way, forcingpedestrians again into the danger they hadavoided for twenty or thirty paces. Then, at night, the only lightwas derived from the glaring, flaring oil-lamps hungabove the doorsof the more aristocratic mansions; just allowing space for thepassers-by to become visible, before they again disappeared into thedarkness,where it was no uncommon thing for robbers to be in waitingfor their prey.The traditions of those bygone times, even to the smallest socialparticular, enable oneto understand more clearly the circumstanceswhich contributed to the formation of character. The daily lifeinto which people are born, and into which they areabsorbed beforethey are well aware, forms chains which only one in a hundred hasmoral strength enough to despise, and to break when the righttimecomes--when an inward necessity for independent individual actionarises, which is superior to all outward conventionalities. Thereforeit is well to know whatwere the chains of daily domestic habit whichwere the natural leading-strings of our forefathers before theylearnt to go alone.The picturesqueness of thoseancient streets has departed now.The Astleys, the Dunstans, the Waverhams--names of power in thatdistrict--go up duly to London in the season, and have soldtheirresidences in the county-town fifty years ago, or more. And when thecounty-town lost its attraction for the Astleys, the Dunstans, theWaverhams, how couldit be supposed that the Domvilles, the Bextons,and the Wildes would continue to go and winter there in theirsecond-rate houses, and with their increasedexpenditure? So thegrand old houses stood empty awhile; and then speculators venturedto purchase, and to turn the deserted mansions into manysmallerdwellings, fitted for professional men, or even (bend your ear lower,lest the shade of Marmaduke, first Baron Waverham, hear) into shops!Even that wasnot so very bad, compared with the next innovation onthe old glories. The shopkeepers found out that the once fashionablestreet was dark, and that the dingylight did not show off theirgoods to advantage; the surgeon could not see to draw his patient'steeth; the lawyer had to ring for candles an hour earlier than hewasaccustomed to do when living in a more plebeian street. In short, bymutual consent, the whole front of one side of the street was pulleddown, and rebuilt inthe flat, mean, unrelieved style of George theThird. The body of the houses was too solidly grand to submit toalteration; so people were occasionally surprised,after passingthrough a commonplace-looking shop, to find themselves at the foot ofa grand carved oaken staircase, lighted by a window of stained glass,storiedall over with armorial bearings.Up such a stair--past such a window (through which the moonlight fellon her with a glory of many colours)--Ruth Hilton passedwearily oneJanuary night, now many years ago. I call it night; but, strictlyspeaking, it was morning. Two o'clock in the morning chimed forththe old bells of StSaviour's. And yet more than a dozen girls stillsat in the room into which Ruth entered, stitching away as if forvery life, not daring to gape, or show any outwardmanifestation ofsleepiness. They only sighed a little when Ruth told Mrs Mason thehour of the night, as the result of her errand; for they knew that,stay up as lateas they might, the work-hours of the next day mustbegin at eight, and their young limbs were very weary.Mrs Mason worked away as hard as any of them; butshe was older andtougher; and, besides, the gains were hers. But even she perceivedthat some rest was needed. "Young ladies! there will be an intervalallowedof half an hour. Ring the bell, Miss Sutton. Martha shallbring you up some bread and cheese and beer. You will be so good asto eat it standing--away from thedresses--and to have your handswashed ready for work when I return. In half an hour," said she oncemore, very distinctly; and then she left the room.It wascurious to watch the young girls as they instantaneouslyavailed themselves of Mrs Mason's absence. One fat, particularlyheavy-looking damsel laid her head onher folded arms and was asleepin a moment; refusing to be wakened for her share in the frugalsupper, but springing up with a frightened look at the sound ofMrsMason's returning footstep, even while it was still far off onthe echoing stairs. Two or three others huddled over the scantyfireplace, which, with every possibleeconomy of space, and noattempt whatever at anything of grace or ornament, was inserted inthe slight, flat-looking wall, that had been run up by thepresentowner of the property to portion off this division of the grand olddrawing-room of the mansion. Some employed the time in eating theirbread and cheese,with as measured and incessant a motion of the jaws(and almost as stupidly placid an expression of countenance), as youmay see in cows ruminating in the firstmeadow you happen to pass.Some held up admiringly the beautiful ball-dress in progress, whileothers examined the effect, backing from the object to becriticisedin the true artistic manner. Others stretched themselves into allsorts of postures to relieve the weary muscles; one or two gave ventto all the yawns,coughs, and sneezes that had been pent up so longin the presence of Mrs Mason. But Ruth Hilton sprang to the large oldwindow, and pressed against it as a birdpresses against the bars ofits cage. She put back the blind, and gazed into the quiet moonlightnight. It was doubly light--almost as much so as day--foreverythingwas covered with the deep snow which had been falling silently eversince the evening before. The window was in a square recess; the oldstrange littlepanes of glass had been replaced by those which gavemore light. A little distance off, the feathery branches of a larchwaved softly to and fro in the scarcelyperceptible night-breeze.Poor old larch! the time had been when it had stood in a pleasantlawn, with the tender grass creeping caressingly up to its verytrunk;but now the lawn was divided into yards and squalidback premises, and the larch was pent up and girded about withflag-stones. The snow lay thick on its boughs,and now and then fellnoiselessly down. The old stables had been added to, and altered intoa dismal street of mean-looking houses, back to back with theancientmansions. And over all these changes from grandeur to squalor, bentdown the purple heavens with their unchanging splendour!Ruth pressed her hotforehead against the cold glass, and strainedher aching eyes in gazing out on the lovely sky of a winter's night.The impulse was strong upon her to snatch up ashawl, and wrapping itround her head, to sally forth and enjoy the glory; and time was whenthat impulse would have been instantly followed; but now, Ruth'seyesfilled with tears, and she stood quite still, dreaming of the daysthat were gone. Some one touched her shoulder while her thoughts werefar away,remembering past January nights, which had resembled this,and were yet so different."Ruth, love," whispered a girl who had unwillingly distinguishedherself by along hard fit of coughing, "come and have some supper.You don't know yet how it helps one through the night.""One run--one blow of the fresh air would do me


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                      SAVE THELAST DANCE                               by                         Duane G. Adler                          revisions by                        Toni-Ann Johnson                      CurrentRevisions by                    Cheryl Edwards (6/11/99)REWRITE -- FIRST SET OF REVISIONSCort/Madden CompanyParamount Studios5555 MelroseAvenueChevalier Building, Ste. 203Los Angeles, CaliforniaJUNE 11, 1999    FADE IN:1   EXT. PENNSYLVANIA COUNTRYSIDE -LONG SHOT - DAY            1    of an empty stretch of land parted down the middle by    railroad tracks. An Amtrak Commuter crests the horizon,    headsTOWARD us. As it gets CLOSER, we GO IN TIGHTER to    see --2   FACE OF SARA JOHNSON                                       2    17, pressed at one of itswindows.3   REVERSE ANGLE - REFLECTION IN TRAIN'S WINDOW -             3    SARA'S FACE    distant and lovely and sad. SUPERIMPOSEDagainst an    endless stream of sky and trees. The train speeds up and    SARA's face flies by, disappearing FROM FRAME.4   INT. AMTRAK TRAIN - MOVING -DUSK                          4    A zaftig BLACK WOMAN clumsily negotiates the aisle.    Stops at the first of a few empty seats left in thecar.                             WOMAN               This seat taken?    ANGLE ON SARA    looking up, around. She shakes her head, clearsher    backpack and magazines from the seat beside her. The    Woman drops down, settles in. A long silence. The Woman    glances at the American Balletmagazine on Sara's lap.    Tries to make conversation.                             WOMAN               I love ballet. Never had the body               for it. Do you


ï»¿Project Gutenberg's A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, by James JoyceThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost norestrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.netTitle: A Portrait of the Artist as a Young ManAuthor: James JoycePosting Date: July 2, 2009 [EBook #4217]Release Date: July, 2003FirstPosted: December 8, 2001[Last updated: March 30, 2014]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PORTRAIT--ARTIST AS YOUNGMAN ***Produced by Col Choat.  HTML version by Al Haines.A Portrait of the Artist as a Young ManbyJames Joyce<p>_"Et ignotas animum dimittit in artes."Ovid,Metamorphoses, VIII., 18._</p>Chapter 1Once upon a time and a very good time it was there was a moocow comingdown along the road and this moocow thatwas coming down along the roadmet a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo...His father told him that story: his father looked at him through aglass: he had ahairy face.He was baby tuckoo. The moocow came down the road where Betty Byrnelived: she sold lemon platt.    O, the wild rose blossoms    On the little greenplace.He sang that song. That was his song.    O, the green wothe botheth.When you wet the bed first it is warm then it gets cold. His mother puton the oilsheet.That had the queer smell.His mother had a nicer smell than his father. She played on the pianothe sailor's hornpipe for him to dance. He danced:    Tralalalala,    Tralala tralaladdy,    Tralala lala,    Tralala lala.Uncle Charles and Dante clapped. They were older than his father andmother but uncle Charles was olderthan Dante.Dante had two brushes in her press. The brush with the maroon velvetback was for Michael Davitt and the brush with the green velvet backwas forParnell. Dante gave him a cachou every time he brought her apiece of tissue paper.The Vances lived in number seven. They had a different father andmother.They were Eileen's father and mother. When they were grown uphe was going to marry Eileen. He hid under the table. His mother said:--O, Stephen willapologize.Dante said:--O, if not, the eagles will come and pull out his eyes.--    Pull out his eyes,    Apologize,    Apologize,    Pull out his eyes.    Apologize,    Pullout his eyes,    Pull out his eyes,    Apologize.* * * * *The wide playgrounds were swarming with boys. All were shouting and theprefects urged them on withstrong cries. The evening air was pale andchilly and after every charge and thud of the footballers the greasyleather orb flew like a heavy bird through the greylight. He kept onthe fringe of his line, out of sight of his prefect, out of the reachof the rude feet, feigning to run now and then. He felt his body smalland weakamid the throng of the players and his eyes were weak andwatery. Rody Kickham was not like that: he would be captain of thethird line all the fellows said.RodyKickham was a decent fellow but Nasty Roche was a stink. RodyKickham had greaves in his number and a hamper in the refectory. NastyRoche had big hands. Hecalled the Friday pudding dog-in-the-blanket.And one day he had asked:--What is your name?Stephen had answered: Stephen Dedalus.Then Nasty Roche hadsaid:--What kind of a name is that?And when Stephen had not been able to answer Nasty Roche had asked:--What is your father?Stephen had answered:--Agentleman.Then Nasty Roche had asked:--Is he a magistrate?He crept about from point to point on the fringe of his line, makinglittle runs now and then. But hishands were bluish with cold. He kepthis hands in the side pockets of his belted grey suit. That was a beltround his pocket. And belt was also to give a fellow abelt. One day afellow said to Cantwell:--I'd give you such a belt in a second.Cantwell had answered:--Go and fight your match. Give Cecil Thunder a belt. I'd liketo seeyou. He'd give you a toe in the rump for yourself.That was not a nice expression. His mother had told him not to speakwith the rough boys in the college.Nice mother! The first day in thehall of the castle when she had said goodbye she had put up her veildouble to her nose to kiss him: and her nose and eyes werered. But hehad pretended not to see that she was going to cry. She was a nicemother but she was not so nice when she cried. And his father had givenhim twofive-shilling pieces for pocket money. And his father had toldhim if he wanted anything to write home to him and, whatever he did,never to peach on a fellow.Then at the door of the castle the rectorhad shaken hands with his father and mother, his soutane fluttering inthe breeze, and the car had driven off with hisfather and mother onit. They had cried to him from the car, waving their hands:--Goodbye, Stephen, goodbye!--Goodbye, Stephen, goodbye!He was caught inthe whirl of a scrimmage and, fearful of the flashingeyes and muddy boots, bent down to look through the legs. The fellowswere struggling and groaning and theirlegs were rubbing and kickingand stamping. Then Jack Lawton's yellow boots dodged out the ball andall the other boots and legs ran after. He ran after them alittle wayand then stopped. It was useless to run on. Soon they would be goinghome for the holidays. After supper in the study hall he would changethe numberpasted up inside his desk from seventy-seven to seventy-six.It would be better to be in the study hall than out there in the cold.The sky was pale and cold butthere were lights in the castle. Hewondered from which window Hamilton Rowan had thrown his hat on theha-ha and had there been flowerbeds at that timeunder the windows. Oneday when he had been called to the castle the butler had shown him themarks of the soldiers' slugs in the wood of the door and had givenhima piece of shortbread that the community ate. It was nice and warm tosee the lights in the castle. It was like something in a book. PerhapsLeicester Abbeywas like that. And there were nice sentences in DoctorCornwell's Spelling Book. They were like poetry but they were onlysentences to learn the spellingfrom.    Wolsey died in Leicester Abbey    Where the abbots buried him.    Canker is a disease of plants,    Cancer one of animals.It would be nice to lie on thehearthrug before the fire, leaning hishead upon his hands, and think on those sentences. He shivered as if hehad cold slimy water next his skin. That was mean ofWells to shoulderhim into the square ditch because he would not swop his little snuffbox for Wells's seasoned hacking chestnut, the conqueror of forty. Howcoldand slimy the water had been! A fellow had once seen a big ratjump into the scum. Mother was sitting at the fire with Dante waitingfor Brigid to bring in the tea.She had her feet on the fender and herjewelly slippers were so hot and they had such a lovely warm smell!Dante knew a lot of things. She had taught him wherethe MozambiqueChannel was and what was the longest river in America and what was thename of the highest mountain in the moon. Father Arnall knew morethanDante because he was a priest but both his father and uncle Charlessaid that Dante was a clever woman and a well-read woman. And whenDante made thatnoise after dinner and then put up her hand to hermouth: that was heartburn.A voice cried far out on the playground:--All in!Then other voices cried from thelower and third lines:--All in! All in!The players closed around, flushed and muddy, and he went among them,glad to go in. Rody Kickham held the ball by itsgreasy lace. A fellowasked him to give it one last: but he walked on without even answeringthe fellow. Simon Moonan told him not to because the prefectwaslooking. The fellow turned to Simon Moonan and said:--We all know why you speak. You are McGlade's suck.Suck was a queer word. The fellow called SimonMoonan that name becauseSimon Moonan used to tie the prefect's false sleeves behind his backand the prefect used to let on to be angry. But the sound wasugly.Once he had washed his hands in the lavatory of the Wicklow Hotel andhis father pulled the stopper up by the chain after and the dirty waterwent downthrough the hole in the basin. And when it had all gone downslowly the hole in the basin had made a sound like that: suck. Onlylouder.To remember that and thewhite look of the lavatory made him feel coldand then hot. There were two cocks that you turned and water came out:cold and hot. He felt cold and then a littlehot: and he could see thenames printed on the cocks. That was a very queer thing.And the air in the corridor chilled him too. It was queer and wettish.But soonthe gas would be lit and in burning it made a light noise likea little song. Always the same: and when the fellows stopped talking inthe playroom you could hearit.It was the hour for sums. Father Arnall wrote a hard sum on the boardand then said:--Now then, who will win? Go ahead, York! Go ahead, Lancaster!Stephentried his best, but the sum was too hard and he felt confused.The little silk badge with the white rose on it that was pinned on thebreast of his jacket began toflutter. He was no good at sums, but hetried his best so that York might not lose. Father Arnall's face lookedvery black, but he was not in a wax: he was laughing.Then Jack Lawtoncracked his fingers and Father Arnall looked at his copybook and said:--Right. Bravo Lancaster! The red rose wins. Come on now, York!Forgeahead!Jack Lawton looked over from his side. The little silk badge with thered rose on it looked very rich because he had a blue sailor top on.Stephen felt hisown face red too, thinking of all the bets about whowould get first place in elements, Jack Lawton or he. Some weeks JackLawton got the card for first and someweeks he got the card for first.His white silk badge fluttered and fluttered as he worked at the nextsum and heard Father Arnall's voice. Then all his eagernesspassed awayand he felt his face quite cool. He thought his face must be whitebecause it felt so cool. He could not get out the answer for the sumbut it did notmatter. White roses and red roses: those were beautifulcolours to think of. And the cards for first place and second place andthird place were beautiful colourstoo: pink and cream and lavender.Lavender and cream and pink roses were beautiful to think of. Perhaps awild rose might be like those colours and heremembered the song aboutthe wild rose blossoms on the little green place. But you could nothave a green rose. But perhaps somewhere in the world youcould.The bell rang and then the classes began to file out of the rooms andalong the corridors towards the refectory. He sat looking at the twoprints of butter onhis plate but could not eat the damp bread. Thetablecloth was damp and limp. But he drank off the hot weak tea whichthe clumsy scullion, girt with a whiteapron, poured into his cup. Hewondered whether the scullion's apron was damp too or whether all whitethings were cold and damp. Nasty Roche and Saurindrank cocoa thattheir people sent them in tins. They said they could not drink the tea;that it was hogwash. Their fathers were magistrates, the fellows said.All theboys seemed to him very strange. They had all fathers andmothers and different clothes and voices. He longed to be at home andlay his head on his mother's lap.But he could not: and so he longedfor the play and study and prayers to be over and to be in bed.He drank another cup of hot tea and Fleming said:--What's up?


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                  "RED DRAGON"                   Screenplay                       By                  MichaelMann                                   SECOND DRAFT                                   July 20, 1984EXT. MARATHON, FLORIDA, BEACH - GRAHAM + CRAWFORD -DAYThe highlit aqua water burns out sections of the two menimposed in front of it. The beach is white sand. JACKCRAWFORD -- mid-forties, large -- camedown from Washington.His suitcoat over the driftwood log and his rolled-up whitesleeves says City, not Florida Keys. WILL GRAHAM -- latethirties -- in a fadedHawaiian number and sun-bleached vio-let shorts, belongs. Graham smokes. Crawford drinks froma glass of iced tea.Then:                          CRAWFORD           I should have caught you at the boat           yard when you got off work. You           don't want to talk aboutit here...                          GRAHAM           I don't want to talk about it           anywhere.                   (beat)           If you brought pictures, leavethem           in the briefcase. Molly and Kevin           will be back soon.                          CRAWFORD           How much do youknow?                          GRAHAM           What was in the 'Miami Herald' and           the


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Tarzan of the Apes, by Edgar Rice BurroughsThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost norestrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.netTitle: Tarzan of the ApesAuthor: Edgar Rice BurroughsRelease Date: June 23, 2008 [EBook #78]Last updated: May 5, 2012Language:English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TARZAN OF THE APES ***Produced by Judith Boss.  HTML version by Al Haines.Tarzan of theApesByEdgar Rice Burroughs         CONTENTS      I  Out to Sea     II  The Savage Home    III  Life and Death     IV  The Apes      V  The White Ape     VI  JungleBattles    VII  The Light of Knowledge   VIII  The Tree-top Hunter     IX  Man and Man      X  The Fear-Phantom     XI  "King of the Apes"    XII  Man'sReason   XIII  His Own Kind    XIV  At the Mercy of the Jungle     XV  The Forest God    XVI  "Most Remarkable"   XVII  Burials  XVIII  The Jungle Toll    XIX  TheCall of the Primitive     XX  Heredity    XXI  The Village of Torture   XXII  The Search Party  XXIII  Brother Men   XXIV  Lost Treasure    XXV  The Outpost of theWorld   XXVI  The Height of Civilization  XXVII  The Giant Again XXVIII  ConclusionChapter IOut to SeaI had this story from one who had no business to tell it tome, or toany other.  I may credit the seductive influence of an old vintage uponthe narrator for the beginning of it, and my own skeptical incredulityduring thedays that followed for the balance of the strange tale.When my convivial host discovered that he had told me so much, and thatI was prone to doubtfulness, hisfoolish pride assumed the task the oldvintage had commenced, and so he unearthed written evidence in the formof musty manuscript, and dry official records ofthe British ColonialOffice to support many of the salient features of his remarkablenarrative.I do not say the story is true, for I did not witness thehappeningswhich it portrays, but the fact that in the telling of it to you I havetaken fictitious names for the principal characters quite sufficientlyevidences thesincerity of my own belief that it MAY be true.The yellow, mildewed pages of the diary of a man long dead, and therecords of the Colonial Office dovetail perfectlywith the narrative ofmy convivial host, and so I give you the story as I painstakinglypieced it out from these several various agencies.If you do not find it credibleyou will at least be as one with me inacknowledging that it is unique, remarkable, and interesting.From the records of the Colonial Office and from the dead man'sdiarywe learn that a certain young English nobleman, whom we shall call JohnClayton, Lord Greystoke, was commissioned to make a peculiarlydelicateinvestigation of conditions in a British West Coast African Colony fromwhose simple native inhabitants another European power was known to berecruitingsoldiers for its native army, which it used solely for theforcible collection of rubber and ivory from the savage tribes alongthe Congo and the Aruwimi.  The nativesof the British Colonycomplained that many of their young men were enticed away through themedium of fair and glowing promises, but that few if any everreturnedto their families.The Englishmen in Africa went even further, saying that these poorblacks were held in virtual slavery, since after their terms ofenlistmentexpired their ignorance was imposed upon by their whiteofficers, and they were told that they had yet several years to serve.And so the Colonial Office appointedJohn Clayton to a new post inBritish West Africa, but his confidential instructions centered on athorough investigation of the unfair treatment of blackBritishsubjects by the officers of a friendly European power.  Why he wassent, is, however, of little moment to this story, for he never made aninvestigation, nor,in fact, did he ever reach his destination.Clayton was the type of Englishman that one likes best to associatewith the noblest monuments of historic achievementupon a thousandvictorious battlefields--a strong, virile man--mentally, morally, andphysically.In stature he was above the average height; his eyes were gray,hisfeatures regular and strong; his carriage that of perfect, robusthealth influenced by his years of army training.Political ambition had caused him to seektransference from the army tothe Colonial Office and so we find him, still young, entrusted with adelicate and important commission in the service of theQueen.When he received this appointment he was both elated and appalled.  Thepreferment seemed to him in the nature of a well-merited reward forpainstakingand intelligent service, and as a stepping stone to postsof greater importance and responsibility; but, on the other hand, hehad been married to the Hon. AliceRutherford for scarce a threemonths, and it was the thought of taking this fair young girl into thedangers and isolation of tropical Africa that appalled him.For hersake he would have refused the appointment, but she would nothave it so.  Instead she insisted that he accept, and, indeed, take herwith him.There weremothers and brothers and sisters, and aunts and cousins toexpress various opinions on the subject, but as to what they severallyadvised history is silent.We knowonly that on a bright May morning in 1888, John, LordGreystoke, and Lady Alice sailed from Dover on their way to Africa.A month later they arrived at Freetownwhere they chartered a smallsailing vessel, the Fuwalda, which was to bear them to their finaldestination.And here John, Lord Greystoke, and Lady Alice, his wife,vanished fromthe eyes and from the knowledge of men.Two months after they weighed anchor and cleared from the port ofFreetown a half dozen British warvessels were scouring the southAtlantic for trace of them or their little vessel, and it was almostimmediately that the wreckage was found upon the shores of St.Helenawhich convinced the world that the Fuwalda had gone down with all onboard, and hence the search was stopped ere it had scarce begun; thoughhopelingered in longing hearts for many years.The Fuwalda, a barkentine of about one hundred tons, was a vessel ofthe type often seen in coastwise trade in the farsouthern Atlantic,their crews composed of the offscourings of the sea--unhanged murderersand cutthroats of every race and every nation.The Fuwalda was noexception to the rule.  Her officers were swarthybullies, hating and hated by their crew.  The captain, while acompetent seaman, was a brute in his treatment ofhis men.  He knew, orat least he used, but two arguments in his dealings with them--abelaying pin and a revolver--nor is it likely that the motleyaggregation hesigned would have understood aught else.So it was that from the second day out from Freetown John Clayton andhis young wife witnessed scenes upon the deckof the Fuwalda such asthey had believed were never enacted outside the covers of printedstories of the sea.It was on the morning of the second day that the firstlink was forgedin what was destined to form a chain of circumstances ending in a lifefor one then unborn such as has never been paralleled in the historyofman.Two sailors were washing down the decks of the Fuwalda, the first matewas on duty, and the captain had stopped to speak with John Clayton andLadyAlice.The men were working backwards toward the little party who were facingaway from the sailors.  Closer and closer they came, until one of themwas directlybehind the captain.  In another moment he would havepassed by and this strange narrative would never have been recorded.But just that instant the officerturned to leave Lord and LadyGreystoke, and, as he did so, tripped against the sailor and sprawledheadlong upon the deck, overturning the water-pail so that hewasdrenched in its dirty contents.For an instant the scene was ludicrous; but only for an instant.  Witha volley of awful oaths, his face suffused with the scarletofmortification and rage, the captain regained his feet, and with aterrific blow felled the sailor to the deck.The man was small and rather old, so that the brutalityof the act wasthus accentuated.  The other seaman, however, was neither old norsmall--a huge bear of a man, with fierce black mustachios, and a greatbull neckset between massive shoulders.As he saw his mate go down he crouched, and, with a low snarl, sprangupon the captain crushing him to his knees with a singlemighty blow.From scarlet the officer's face went white, for this was mutiny; andmutiny he had met and subdued before in his brutal career.  Withoutwaiting torise he whipped a revolver from his pocket, firing pointblank at the great mountain of muscle towering before him; but, quickas he was, John Clayton was almostas quick, so that the bullet whichwas intended for the sailor's heart lodged in the sailor's leg instead,for Lord Greystoke had struck down the captain's arm as hehad seen theweapon flash in the sun.Words passed between Clayton and the captain, the former making itplain that he was disgusted with the brutality displayedtoward thecrew, nor would he countenance anything further of the kind while heand Lady Greystoke remained passengers.The captain was on the point of makingan angry reply, but, thinkingbetter of it, turned on his heel and black and scowling, strode aft.He did not care to antagonize an English official, for theQueen'smighty arm wielded a punitive instrument which he could appreciate, andwhich he feared--England's far-reaching navy.The two sailors picked themselvesup, the older man assisting hiswounded comrade to rise.  The big fellow, who was known among his matesas Black Michael, tried his leg gingerly, and, findingthat it bore hisweight, turned to Clayton with a word of gruff thanks.Though the fellow's tone was surly, his words were evidently wellmeant.  Ere he had scarcefinished his little speech he had turned andwas limping off toward the forecastle with the very apparent intentionof forestalling any further conversation.They didnot see him again for several days, nor did the captain accordthem more than the surliest of grunts when he was forced to speak tothem.They took their meals inhis cabin, as they had before the unfortunateoccurrence; but the captain was careful to see that his duties neverpermitted him to eat at the same time.The otherofficers were coarse, illiterate fellows, but little abovethe villainous crew they bullied, and were only too glad to avoidsocial intercourse with the polished Englishnoble and his lady, sothat the Claytons were left very much to themselves.This in itself accorded perfectly with their desires, but it alsorather isolated them fromthe life of the little ship so that they wereunable to keep in touch with the daily happenings which were toculminate so soon in bloody tragedy.There was in thewhole atmosphere of the craft that undefinablesomething which presages disaster.  Outwardly, to the knowledge of theClaytons, all went on as before upon thelittle vessel; but that therewas an undertow leading them toward some unknown danger both felt,though they did not speak of it to each other.On the second dayafter the wounding of Black Michael, Clayton came ondeck just in time to see the limp body of one of the crew being carriedbelow by four of his fellows while thefirst mate, a heavy belaying pinin his hand, stood glowering at the little party of sullen sailors.Clayton asked no questions--he did not need to--and the following