context
stringlengths 4.52k
15.8k
| word
stringlengths 4
12
| claim
stringlengths 55
63
| label
int64 0
3
|
|---|---|---|---|
deprive his
mother of the beautiful spectacle.
However, she slipped in, with her bag and her seamy fingers and her
rather sardonic expression, at the very moment when Denry was putting on
his overcoat in the kitchen (there being insufficient room in the
passage). He did what he could to hide his shirt-front (though she knew
all about it), and failed.
"Bless us!" she exclaimed briefly, going to the fire to warm her hands.
A harmless remark. But her tone seemed to strip bare the vanity of human
greatness.
"I'm in a hurry," said Denry, importantly, as if he was going forth to
sign a treaty involving the welfare of the nations.
"Well," said she, "happen ye are, Denry. But th' kitchen table's no
place for boot-brushes."
He had one piece of luck. It froze. Therefore no anxiety about the
condition of boots.
VI
The Countess was late; some trouble with a horse. Happily the Earl had
been in Bursley all day, and had dressed at the Conservative Club; and
his lordship had ordered that the programme of dances should be begun.
Denry learned this as soon as he emerged, effulgent, from the
gentlemen's cloak-room into the broad red-carpeted corridor which runs
from end to end of the ground-floor of the Town Hall. Many important
townspeople were chatting in the corridor--the innumerable Swetnam
family, the Stanways, the great Etches, the Fearnses, Mrs Clayton
Vernon, the Suttons, including Beatrice Sutton. Of course everybody knew
him for Duncalf's shorthand clerk and the son of the flannel-washer; but
universal white kid gloves constitute a democracy, and Shillitoe could
put more style into a suit than any other tailor in the Five Towns.
"How do?" the eldest of the Swetnam boys nodded carelessly.
"How do, Swetnam?" said Denry, with equal carelessness.
The thing was accomplished! That greeting was like a Masonic initiation,
and henceforward he was the peer of no matter whom. At first he had
thought that four hundred eyes would be fastened on him, their glance
saying, "This youth is wearing a dress-suit for the first time, and it
is not paid for, either!" But it was not so. And the reason was that the
entire population of the Town Hall was heartily engaged in pretending
that never in its life had it been seen after seven o'clock of a night
apart from a dress-suit. Denry observed with joy that, while numerous
middle-aged and awkward men wore red or white silk handkerchiefs in
their waistcoats, such people as Charles Fearns, the Swetnams, and
Harold Etches did not. He was, then, in the shyness of his handkerchief,
on the side of the angels.
He passed up the double staircase (decorated with white or pale frocks
of unparalleled richness), and so into the grand hall. A scarlet
orchestra was on the platform, and many people strolled about the floor
in attitudes of expectation. The walls were festooned with flowers. The
thrill of being magnificent seized him, and he was drenched in a vast
desire to be truly magnificent himself. He dreamt of magnificence and
boot-brushes kept sticking out of this dream like black mud out of snow.
In his reverie he looked about for Ruth Earp, but she was invisible.
Then he went downstairs again, idly; gorgeously feigning that he spent
six evenings a week in ascending and descending monumental staircases,
appropriately clad. He was determined to be as sublime as any one.
There was a stir in the corridor, and the sublimest consented to be
excited.
The Countess was announced to be imminent. Everybody was grouped round
the main portal, careless of temperatures. Six times was the Countess
announced to be imminent before she actually appeared, expanding from
the narrow gloom of her black carriage like a magic vision. Aldermen
received her--and they did not do it with any excess of gracefulness.
They seemed afraid of her, as though she was recovering from influenza
and they feared to catch it. She had precisely the same high voice, and
precisely the same efficient smile, as she had employed to Denry, and
these instruments worked marvels on aldermen; they were as melting as
salt on snow. The Countess disappeared upstairs in a cloud of shrill
apologies and trailing aldermen. She seemed to have greeted everybody
except Denry. Somehow he was relieved that she had not drawn attention
to him. He lingered, hesitating, and then he saw a being in a long
yellow overcoat, with a bit of peacock's feather at the summit of a
shiny high hat. This being held a lady's fur mantle. Their eyes met.
Denry had to decide instantly. He decided.
"Hello, Jock!" he said.
"Hello, Denry!" said the other, pleased.
"What's been happening?" Denry inquired, friendly.
Then Jock told him about the antics of one of the Countess's horses.
He went upstairs again, and met Ruth Earp coming down. She was glorious
in white. Except that nothing glittered in her hair, she looked the very
equal of the Countess, at a little distance, plain though her features
were.
"What about that waltz?" Denry began informally.
"That waltz is nearly over," said Ruth Earp, with chilliness. "I suppose
you've been staring at her ladyship with all the other men."
"I'm awfully sorry," he said. "I didn't know the waltz was----"
"Well, why didn't you look at your programme?"
"Haven't got one," he said naïvely.
He had omitted to take a programme. Ninny! Barbarian!
"Better get one," she said cuttingly, somewhat in her _rôle_ of
dancing mistress.
"Can't we finish the waltz?" he suggested, crestfallen.
"No!" she said, and continued her solitary way downwards.
She was hurt. He tried to think of something to say that was equal to
the situation, and equal to the style of his suit. But he could not. In
a moment he heard her, below him, greeting some male acquaintance in the
most effusive way.
Yet, if Denry had not committed a wicked crime for her, she could never
have come to the dance at all!
He got a programme, and with terror gripping his heart he asked sundry
young and middle-aged women whom he knew by sight and by name for a
dance. (Ruth had taught him how to ask.) Not one of them had a dance
left. Several looked at him as much as to say: "You must be a goose to
suppose that my programme is not filled up in the twinkling of my eye!"
Then he joined a group of despisers of dancing near the main door.
Harold Etches was there, the wealthiest manufacturer of his years
(barely twenty-four) in the Five Towns. Also Shillitoe, cause of another
of Denry's wicked crimes. The group was taciturn, critical, and very
doggish.
The group observed that the Countess was not dancing. The Earl was
dancing (need it be said with Mrs Jos Curtenty, second wife of the
Deputy Mayor?), but the Countess stood resolutely smiling, surrounded by
aldermen. Possibly she was getting her breath; possibly nobody had had
the pluck to ask her. Anyhow, she seemed to be stranded there, on a
beach of aldermen. Very wisely she had brought with her no members of a
house-party from Sneyd Hall. Members of a house-party, at a municipal
ball, invariably operate as a bar between greatness and democracy; and
the Countess desired to participate in the life of the people.
"Why don't some of those johnnies ask her?" Denry burst out. He had
hitherto said nothing in the group, and he felt that he must be a man
with the rest of them.
"Well, _you_ go and do it. It's a free country," said Shillitoe.
"So I would, for two pins!" said Denry.
Harold Etches glanced at him, apparently resentful of his presence
there. Harold Etches was determined to put the extinguisher on
_him_.
"I'll bet you a fiver you don't," said Etches scornfully.
"I'll take you," said Denry, very quickly, and very quickly walked off.
VII
"She can't eat me. She can't eat me!"
This was what he said to himself as he crossed the floor. People seemed
to make a lane for him, divining his incredible intention. If he had not
started at once, if his legs had not started of themselves, he would
never have started; and, not being in command of a fiver, he would
afterwards have cut a preposterous figure in the group. But started he
was, like a piece of clockwork that could not be stopped! In the grand
crises of his life something not himself, something more powerful than
himself, jumped up in him and forced him to do things. Now for the first
time he seemed to understand what had occurred within him in previous
crises.
In a second--so it appeared--he had reached the Countess. Just behind
her was his employer, Mr Duncalf, whom Denry had not previously noticed
there. Denry regretted this, for he had never mentioned to Mr Duncalf
that he was coming to the ball, and he feared Mr Duncalf.
"Could I have this dance with you?" he demanded bluntly, but smiling and
showing his teeth.
No ceremonial title! No mention of "pleasure" or "honour." Not a trace
of the formula in which Ruth Earp had instructed him! He forgot all such
trivialities.
"I've won that fiver, Mr Harold Etches," he said to himself.
The mouths of aldermen inadvertently opened. Mr Duncalf blenched.
"It's nearly over, isn't it?" said the Countess, still efficiently
smiling. She did not recognise Denry. In that suit he might have been a
Foreign Office attaché.
"Oh! that doesn't matter, I'm sure," said Denry.
She yielded, and he took the paradisaical creature in his arms. It was
her business that evening to be universally and inclusively polite. She
could not have begun with a refusal. A refusal might have dried up all
other invitations whatsoever. Besides, she saw that the aldermen wanted
a lead. Besides, she was young, though a countess, and adored dancing.
Thus they waltzed together, while the flower of Bursley's chivalry gazed
in enchantment. The Countess's fan, depending from her arm, dangled
against Denry's suit in a rather confusing fashion, which withdrew his
attention from his feet. He laid hold of it gingerly between two
unemployed fingers. After that he managed fairly well. Once they came
perilously near the Earl and his partner; nothing else. And then the
dance ended, exactly when Denry had begun to savour the astounding
spectacle of himself enclasping the Countess.
The Countess had soon perceived that he was the merest boy.
"You waltz quite nicely!" she said, like an aunt, but with more than an
aunt's smile.
"Do I?" he beamed. Then something compelled him to say: "Do you know,
it's the first time I've ever waltzed in my life, except in a lesson,
you know?"
"Really!" she murmured. "You pick things up easily, I suppose?"
"Yes," he said. "Do you?"
Either the question or the tone sent the Countess off into carillons of
amusement. Everybody could see that Denry had made the Countess laugh
tremendously. It was on this note that the waltz finished. She was still
laughing when he bowed to her (as taught by Ruth Earp). He could not
comprehend why she had so laughed, save on the supposition that he was
more humorous than he had suspected. Anyhow, he laughed too, and they
parted laughing. He remembered that he had made a marked effect (though
not one of laughter) on the tailor by quickly returning the question,
"Are you?" And his unpremeditated stroke with the Countess was similar.
When he had got ten yards on his way towards Harold Etches and a fiver
he felt something in his hand. The Countess's fan was sticking between
his fingers. It had unhooked itself from her chain. He furtively
pocketed it.
VIII
"Just the same as dancing with any other woman!" He told this untruth in
reply to a question from Shillitoe. It was the least he could do. And
any other young man in his place would have said as much or as little.
"What was she laughing at?" somebody asked.
"Ah!" said Denry, judiciously, "wouldn't you like to know?"
"Here you are!" said Etches, with an inattentive, plutocratic gesture
handing over a five-pound note. He was one of those men who never
venture out of sight of a bank without a banknote in their pockets--
"Because you never know what may turn up."
Denry accepted the note with a silent nod. In some directions he was
gifted with astounding insight, and he could read in the faces of the
haughty males surrounding him that in the space of a few minutes he had
risen from nonentity into renown. He had become a great man. He did not
at once realise how great, how renowned. But he saw enough in those eyes
to cause his heart to glow, and to rouse in his brain those ambitious
dreams which stirred him upon occasion. He left the group; he had need
of motion, and also of that mental privacy which one may enjoy while
strolling about on a crowded floor in the midst of a considerable noise.
He noticed that the Countess was now dancing with an alderman, and that
the alderman, by an oversight inexcusable in an alderman, was not
wearing gloves. It was he, Denry, who had broken the ice, so that the
alderman might plunge into the water. He first had danced with the
Countess, and had rendered her up to the alderman with delicious gaiety
upon her countenance. By instinct he knew Bursley, and he knew that he
would be talked of. He knew that, for a time at any rate, he would
displace even Jos Curtenty, that almost professional "card" and amuser
of burgesses, in the popular imagination.
|
denry
|
How many times does the word 'denry' appear in the text?
| 3
|
his heart beating, his mind anxious.
Suddenly before him stood a well-dressed gentleman staring at him. The
person resembled Duroy so close that the latter retreated, then
stopped, and saw that it was his own image reflected in a pier-glass!
Not having anything but a small mirror at home, he had not been able to
see himself entirely, and had exaggerated the imperfections of his
toilette. When he saw his reflection in the glass, he did not even
recognize himself; he took himself for some one else, for a
man-of-the-world, and was really satisfied with his general appearance.
Smiling to himself, Duroy extended his hand and expressed his
astonishment, pleasure, and approbation. A door opened on the
staircase, He was afraid of being surprised and began to ascend more
rapidly, fearing that he might have been seen posing there by some of
his friend's invited guests.
On reaching the second floor, he saw another mirror, and once more
slackened his pace to look at himself. He likewise paused before the
third glass, twirled his mustache, took off his hat to arrange his
hair, and murmured half aloud, a habit of his: "Hall mirrors are most
convenient."
Then he rang the bell. The door opened almost immediately, and before
him stood a servant in a black coat, with a grave, shaven face, so
perfect in his appearance that Duroy again became confused as he
compared the cut of their garments.
The lackey asked:
"Whom shall I announce, Monsieur?" He raised a portiere and pronounced
the name.
Duroy lost his self-possession upon being ushered into a world as yet
strange to him. However, he advanced. A young, fair woman received him
alone in a large, well-lighted room. He paused, disconcerted. Who was
that smiling lady? He remembered that Forestier was married, and the
thought that the handsome blonde was his friend's wife rendered him
awkward and ill-at-ease. He stammered out:
"Madame, I am--"
She held out her hand. "I know, Monsieur--Charles told me of your
meeting last night, and I am very glad that he asked you to dine with
us to-day."
Duroy blushed to the roots of his hair, not knowing how to reply; he
felt that he was being inspected from his head to his feet. He half
thought of excusing himself, of inventing an explanation of the
carelessness of his toilette, but he did not know how to touch upon
that delicate subject.
He seated himself upon a chair she pointed out to him, and as he sank
into its luxurious depths, it seemed to him that he was entering a new
and charming life, that he would make his mark in the world, that he
was saved. He glanced at Mme. Forestier. She wore a gown of pale blue
cashmere which clung gracefully to her supple form and rounded
outlines; her arms and throat rose in, lily-white purity from the mass
of lace which ornamented the corsage and short sleeves. Her hair was
dressed high and curled on the nape of her neck.
Duroy grew more at his ease under her glance, which recalled to him, he
knew not why, that of the girl he had met the preceding evening at the
Folies-Bergeres. Mme. Forestier had gray eyes, a small nose, full lips,
and a rather heavy chin, an irregular, attractive face, full of
gentleness and yet of malice.
After a short silence, she asked: "Have you been in Paris a long time?"
Gradually regaining his self-possession, he replied: "a few months,
Madame. I am in the railroad employ, but my friend Forestier has
encouraged me to hope that, thanks to him, I can enter into journalism."
She smiled kindly and murmured in a low voice: "I know."
The bell rang again and the servant announced: "Mme. de Marelle." She
was a dainty brunette, attired in a simple, dark robe; a red rose in
her black tresses seemed to accentuate her special character, and a
young girl, or rather a child, for such she was, followed her.
Mme. Forestier said: "Good evening, Clotilde."
"Good evening, Madeleine."
They embraced each other, then the child offered her forehead with the
assurance of an adult, saying:
"Good evening, cousin."
Mme. Forestier kissed her, and then made the introductions:
"M. Georges Duroy, an old friend of Charles. Mme. de Marelle, my
friend, a relative in fact." She added: "Here, you know, we do not
stand on ceremony."
Duroy bowed. The door opened again and a short man entered, upon his
arm a tall, handsome woman, taller than he and much younger, with
distinguished manners and a dignified carriage. It was M. Walter,
deputy, financier, a moneyed man, and a man of business, manager of "La
Vie Francaise," with his wife, nee Basile Ravalade, daughter of the
banker of that name.
Then came Jacques Rival, very elegant, followed by Norbert de Varenne.
The latter advanced with the grace of the old school and taking Mme.
Forestier's hand kissed it; his long hair falling upon his hostess's
bare arm as he did so.
Forestier now entered, apologizing for being late; he had been detained.
The servant announced dinner, and they entered the dining-room. Duroy
was placed between Mme. de Marelle and her daughter. He was again
rendered uncomfortable for fear of committing some error in the
conventional management of his fork, his spoon, or his glasses, of
which he had four. Nothing was said during the soup; then Norbert de
Varenne asked a general question: "Have you read the Gauthier case? How
droll it was!"
Then followed a discussion of the subject in which the ladies joined.
Then a duel was mentioned and Jacques Rival led the conversation; that
was his province. Duroy did not venture a remark, but occasionally
glanced at his neighbor. A diamond upon a slight, golden thread
depended from her ear; from time to time she uttered a remark which
evoked a smile upon his lips. Duroy sought vainly for some compliment
to pay her; he busied himself with her daughter, filled her glass,
waited upon her, and the child, more dignified than her mother, thanked
him gravely saying, "You are very kind, Monsieur," while she listened
to the conversation with a reflective air. The dinner was excellent and
everyone was delighted with it.
The conversation returned to the colonization of Algeria. M. Walter
uttered several jocose remarks; Forestier alluded to the article he had
prepared for the morrow; Jacques Rival declared himself in favor of a
military government with grants of land to all the officers after
thirty years of colonial service.
"In that way," said he, "you can establish a strong colony, familiar
with and liking the country, knowing its language and able to cope with
all those local yet grave questions which invariably confront
newcomers."
Norbert de Varenne interrupted: "Yes, they would know everything,
except agriculture. They would speak Arabic, but they would not know
how to transplant beet-root, and how to sow wheat. They would be strong
in fencing, but weak in the art of farming. On the contrary, the new
country should be opened to everyone. Intelligent men would make
positions for themselves; the others would succumb. It is a natural
law."
A pause ensued. Everyone smiled. Georges Duroy, startled at the sound
of his own voice, as if he had never heard it, said:
"What is needed the most down there is good soil. Really fertile land
costs as much as it does in France and is bought by wealthy Parisians.
The real colonists, the poor, are generally cast out into the desert,
where nothing grows for lack of water."
All eyes turned upon him. He colored. M. Walter asked: "Do you know
Algeria, sir?"
He replied: "Yes, sir, I was there twenty-eight months." Leaving the
subject of colonization, Norbert de Varenne questioned him as to some
of the Algerian customs. Georges spoke with animation; excited by the
wine and the desire to please, he related anecdotes of the regiment, of
Arabian life, and of the war.
Mme. Walter murmured to him in her soft tones: "You could write a
series of charming articles."
Forestier took advantage of the situation to say to M. Walter: "My dear
sir, I spoke to you a short while since of M. Georges Duroy and asked
you to permit me to include him on the staff of political reporters.
Since Marambot has left us, I have had no one to take urgent and
confidential reports, and the paper is suffering by it."
M. Walter put on his spectacles in order to examine Duroy. Then he
said: "I am convinced that M. Duroy is original, and if he will call
upon me tomorrow at three o'clock, we will arrange matters." After a
pause, turning to the young man, he said: "You may write us a short
sketch on Algeria, M. Duroy. Simply relate your experiences; I am sure
they will interest our readers. But you must do it quickly."
Mme. Walter added with her customary, serious grace: "You will have a
charming title: 'Souvenirs of a Soldier in Africa.' Will he not, M.
Norbert?"
The old poet, who had attained renown late in life, disliked and
mistrusted newcomers. He replied dryly: "Yes, excellent, provided that
it is written in the right key, for there lies the great difficulty."
Mme. Forestier cast upon Duroy a protecting and smiling glance which
seemed to say: "You shall succeed." The servant filled the glasses with
wine, and Forestier proposed the toast: "To the long prosperity of 'La
Vie Francaise.'" Duroy felt superhuman strength within him, infinite
hope, and invincible resolution. He was at his ease now among these
people; his eyes rested upon their faces with renewed assurance, and
for the first time he ventured to address his neighbor:
"You have the most beautiful earrings I have ever seen."
She turned toward him with a smile: "It is a fancy of mine to wear
diamonds like this, simply on a thread."
He murmured in reply, trembling at his audacity: "It is charming--but
the ear increases the beauty of the ornament."
She thanked him with a glance. As he turned his head, he met Mme.
Forestier's eyes, in which he fancied he saw a mingled expression of
gaiety, malice, and encouragement. All the men were talking at the same
time; their discussion was animated.
When the party left the dining-room, Duroy offered his arm to the
little girl. She thanked him gravely and stood upon tiptoe in order to
lay her hand upon his arm. Upon entering the drawing-room, the young
man carefully surveyed it. It was not a large room; but there were no
bright colors, and one felt at ease; it was restful. The walls were
draped with violet hangings covered with tiny embroidered flowers of
yellow silk. The portieres were of a grayish blue and the chairs were
of all shapes, of all sizes; scattered about the room were couches and
large and small easy-chairs, all covered with Louis XVI. brocade, or
Utrecht velvet, a cream colored ground with garnet flowers.
"Do you take coffee, M. Duroy?" Mme. Forestier offered him a cup, with
the smile that was always upon her lips.
"Yes, Madame, thank you." He took the cup, and as he did so, the young
woman whispered to him: "Pay Mme. Walter some attention." Then she
vanished before he could reply.
First he drank his coffee, which he feared he should let fall upon the
carpet; then he sought a pretext for approaching the manager's wife and
commencing a conversation. Suddenly he perceived that she held an empty
cup in her hand, and as she was not near a table, she did not know
where to put it. He rushed toward her:
"Allow me, Madame."
"Thank you, sir."
He took away the cup and returned: "If you, but knew, Madame, what
pleasant moments 'La Vie Francaise' afforded me, when I was in the
desert! It is indeed the only paper one cares to read outside of
France; it contains everything."
She smiled with amiable indifference as she replied: "M. Walter had a
great deal of trouble in producing the kind of journal which was
required."
They talked of Paris, the suburbs, the Seine, the delights of summer,
of everything they could think of. Finally M. Norbert de Varenne
advanced, a glass of liqueur in his hand, and Duroy discreetly
withdrew. Mme. de Marelle, who was chatting with her hostess, called
him: "So, sir," she said bluntly, "you are going to try journalism?"
That question led to a renewal of the interrupted conversation with
Mme. Walter. In her turn Mme. de Marelle related anecdotes, and
becoming familiar, laid her hand upon Duroy's arm. He felt that he
would like to devote himself to her, to protect her--and the slowness
with which he replied to her questions indicated his preoccupation.
Suddenly, without any cause, Mme. de Marelle called: "Laurine!" and the
girl came to her. "Sit down here, my child, you will be cold near the
window."
Duroy was seized with an eager desire to embrace the child, as if part
of that embrace would revert to the mother. He asked in a gallant, yet
paternal tone: "Will you permit me to kiss you, Mademoiselle?" The
child raised her eyes with an air of surprise. Mme. de Marelle said
with a smile: "Reply."
"I will allow you to-day, Monsieur, but not all the time."
Seating himself, Duroy took Laurine upon his knee, and kissed her lips
and her fine wavy hair. Her mother was surprised: "Well, that is
strange! Ordinarily she only allows ladies to caress her. You are
irresistible, Monsieur!"
Duroy colored, but did not reply.
When Mme. Forestier joined them, a cry of astonishment escaped
|
that
|
How many times does the word 'that' appear in the text?
| 3
|
one eight...
<b> EXT. CHINATOWN - DAY
</b> Max watches people bustle through the busy intersections of
Chinatown. The streets are clogged with people.
<b> MAX (V.O.)
</b> Somewhere in there.
Somewhere. I know it's right
in front of me. The pattern.
They say it's chaos, it can't
be understood, too much
complexity.
<b> EXT. ELECTRONIC MEGADUMP - DAY
</b> Max scavenges electronic parts as he carefully navigates an
endless dump for old and rotting computers.
<b> MAX (V.O.)
</b> History it's there.
Lurking, shaping.
structuring, hiding, right
beneath the surface.
He unscrews a random IBM Board from a keyboard and slides it
into his pocket.
<b> EXT PLAYGROUND DAY
</b><b> MOVE IN
</b> on Max looking up at something as he reclines on a public
bench.
<b> MAX (V.0.)
</b> The cycling of disease epidemics,
the wax and wane of Caribou populations
in the Arctic, sunspot cycles,
the rise and fall of the
Nile and yes! the New York Stock
Exchange, they are all the
same.
<b>
</b><b> MOVE IN
</b> on a tree branch - shaking gently in the wind.
<b> SLOW DISSOLVE TO EXTREME CLOSE-UP OF STOCK TICKER
</b> Bright stock quotes drift across the screen.
<b> MAX (V.O.)
</b> I'll find this structure,
this order, this perfection.
<b> INT. MAX'S APARTMENT - DAY
</b> Max stares intensely at the ticker on the small TV that sits
next to his monitors.
<b> MAX (V.O.)
</b> Turn lead into gold.
The first. Right here. Right
here. With math. The numbers
of the stock market are my
lead. When I find the
pattern, then I will find
gold.
<b>
</b> Max watches the right edge of the screen where the numbers
appear. He wants to see what's before that edge...
Max slaps the RETURN button on his computer.
The phone starts ringing.
Max eyes it suspiciously.
Just then, Euclid starts printing results on an old dot-
matrix printer.
Max suspiciously answers The phone.
<b> MAX
</b> Hello?
<b>
</b><b> WOMAN'S VOICE
</b> Maximilian Cohen, please.
<b>
</b><b> MAX
</b> Yeah?
<b>
</b><b> WOMAN'S VOICE
</b> Mr. Cohen?
<b>
</b><b> MAX
</b> Who's this?
<b>
</b><b> WOMAN'S VOICE
</b> Hi. my name is Marcy Dawson.
I'm a partner with the predictive
strategy firm Lancet-Percy. Can I
speak with Mr. Cohen, please?
<b> MAX
</b> I told you...
<b>
</b> The printer finishes printing.
<b> MARCY DAWSON
</b> Mr. Cohen! How
are you? It's been a long
time. Sorry I haven't been in
touch. But I was hoping you
would allow me to take you to
lunch tomorrow, say one
o'clock?
<b>
</b><b> MAX
</b> Sorry, I can't.
<b>
</b><b> MARCY DAWSON
</b> We're very anxious to talk
with you, sir
<b> MAX
</b> I can't.
<b>
</b><b> MARCY DAWSON
</b> I'm prepared to
make you a generous...
Max hurries to wrap up the conversation.
<b> MAX
</b> I don't take offers for
my research. You know that.
Sorry, I Couldn't help you.
<b>
</b><b> MARCY DAWSON
</b> Mr. Cohen, give
me a moment...
But before Marcy finishes, Max hangs up. He rips off the
printout and heads to the front door.
He checks the peephole, His landlady. MRS. OVADIA, is sweeping
the hallway stairs humming a turn-of-the century (the last
one, not this one) tune.
Max waits a moment. He tousles his hair. Then he checks again.
She's gone. He opens his locks and releases several bolts.
<b> INT.MAX'S BUILDING HALLWAY - DAY
</b>
Max locks his front door. Meanwhile, his next-door neighbor,
DEVI MINSTRY, a sexy young Indian woman, is just getting home.
Max looks away and tries to get his door locked.
She's weighted down by a bunch of bags filled with food.
<b> DEVI
</b> Max, good!
<b>
</b><b> MAX
</b> Hi, Devi.
<b>
</b><b> DEV1
</b> I grabbed you some
somosas.
<b> MAX
</b> Great.
<b>
</b> Devi heads over to Max with her bags of food. She looks up at
Max.
<b> DEVI
</b> Your hair.
<b>
</b> Devi hands the bags to Max. Then she goes to pat down his
Hair. Max retreats.
<b> MAX
</b> What are you doing?
<b>
</b><b> DEVI
</b> Your hair, you can't go
out like that. Don't worry.
<b> MAX
</b> It's fine. It's fine.
<b>
</b> Devi pats down his hair. Max is humiliated.
<b> DEVI
</b> You need a mom.
<b>
</b> Max hands back the bags and heads quickly for the stairs.
<b> MAX
</b> I have to go.
<b>
</b><b> DEVI
</b> Your somosas!
<b>
</b> An embarrassed Max takes the bag.
<b> MAX
</b> Thanks.
<b>
</b><b> INT. COFFEE SHOP - DAY
</b>
At the counter, Max stirs cream into his coffee. Then he takes
three pills from the plastic bottle and drops them in his
coffee.
Max flips past a full-page ad in the paper that reads
<b> LANCET-PERCY 86% ACCURACY (ONLY GOD IS PERFECT).
</b> Max flips the page before he or we can absorb it. He compares
stock quotes in the Wall Street Journal against his printout.
<b> MAX (V.O.)
</b> Sixteen, twenty-seven. Results: Euclid
shows tomorrow's Dow closing
up by four points. Anomalies
include PRONET at sixty-fire
and a quarter, a career high.
Possible explanations, either
A, an error in the June fifth
algorithm, or B, Euclid's
main processor is running a
recursion...
Max marks up the paper with lines and diagrams as he ponders
his bits and misses.
Then a puff of cigarette smoke drifts by and succeeds in
bothering Max. He fans it away when
<b> VOICE FROM OFFSCREEN
</b> Oh sorry, am I bothering you?
<b>
</b> Max shrugs and looks over.
The voice belongs to LENNY MEYERa bearded man in his late 20s
sucking on a cigarette.
On closer inspection, something is off. It seems that Lenny is
an Orthodox Jew. His yarmulke sticks out Slightly from his
wide-brimmed hat and the fringes from his tsi-tsis hang out
from the bottom of his untucked shirt.
<b> LENNY MEYER
</b> I'll put it out.
(Which he does)
The name's Lenny Meyer
<b>
</b> Lenny sticks out his hand. Max responds with a small nod.
<b> LENNY MEYER
</b> And you are?
<b>
</b><b> MAX
</b> Max.
<b>
</b><b> LENNY MEYER
</b> Max?
<b>
</b><b> MAX
</b> Max Cohen.
<b>
</b><b> LENNY MEYER
</b> Cohen!
(Judging)
Jewish?
Max shrugs and turns back to his work.
<b> LENNY MEYER
</b> It's okay.
(Joking)
I'm a Jew, too.
(Serious)
Do you practice?
<b> MAX
</b> No, I'm not interested
in religion.
<b> LENNY MEYER
</b> Have you ever
heard of Kabbalah?
<b> MAX
</b> No.
<b> LENNY MEYER
</b> Jewish mysticism.
<b>
</b><b> MAX
</b> I'm sorry, I'm very busy.
<b>
</b><b> LENNY MEYER
</b> I understand...it's just that
it's a very exciting time in
our history. Right now is a
critical moment in time.
<b> MAX
</b> (Sarcastic)
Really?
<b>
</b><b> LENNY MEYER
</b> Yes, it's very exciting.
Have you ever put on Tefillin?
Max has no idea what Lenny's talking about. Lenny pulls a
leather box with black leather straps from his pocket.
<b> LENNY MEYER
</b> Tefillin. You know Tefillin.
I know it looks strange.
But it's an amazing
tradition that has a
tremendous amount of power.
It's a mitzvah for all
Jewish men to do. Mitzvahs,
good deeds, are spiritual
food for our hearts and our
heads.
And then Max notices that his thumb is twitching He grabs it
self-consciously.
<b> LENNY MEYER
</b> They purify us and bring us
closer to God. You want to try it?
Just then, Max pays his bill and prepares to leave.
<b> MAX
</b> I gotta go...
<b>
</b><b> LENNY MEYER
</b> Are you okay? Max? Max?
<b>
</b><b> MAX
</b> I'm sorry, bye.
<b>
</b><b> LENNY MEYER
</b> Well, maybe some other time.
<b>
</b><b> INT. MAX'S BATHROOM - NIGHT
</b> Max splashes water on his face.
<b> MAX
</b> Please God, Let it be a
small one.
He
|
then
|
How many times does the word 'then' appear in the text?
| 2
|
a crowded elevator surrounded by
Japanese businessmen below his shoulders.
The elevator stops at the 50th floor and the doors open onto
the massive, streamline lobby of the Park Hyatt.
Bob follows the JAPANESE BUSINESSMEN out into the marble and
glass lobby that frames the view of Tokyo.
The CONCIERGE and several eager HOTEL MANAGERS greet Bob. He
just wants to sleep, but more STAFF continue to greet him,
ask him about his fright. They lead him to reception.
<b> INT. HOTEL RECEPTION - NIGHT
</b>
At the reception area four JAPANESE BUSINESSMEN and two WOMEN
quickly sit up from their seats on sight of Bob, and extend
handshakes and gifts. They bow and introduce themselves from
the commercial company, extend name cards and welcome him
enthusiastically.
More staff welcomes him and offer their service during his
stay.
One of them presents a fax that has come for him.
<b> INSERT -
</b>
<b> "TO: BOB HARRIS
</b>
<b> FROM: LYDIA HARRIS
</b>
<b> YOU FORGOT ADAM'S BIRTHDAY.
</b>
<b> I'M SURE HE'LL UNDERSTAND.
</b>
<b> HAVE A GOOD TRIP, L"
</b>
He doesn't know what to do with it, and stuffs it in his
pocket.
The commercial people tell him when they'll be picking him
up, and ask if he needs anything else.
Some JAPANESE ROCK STARS with shag haircuts and skinny leather
pants pass by. Each commercial person has to shake Bob's
hand before leaving.
<b> CUT TO:
</b>
<b> INT. BOB'S HOTEL ROOM - NIGHT
</b>
Bob sits on the end of the bed in a too small hotel kimono.
<b> INT. PARK HYATT BAR - NIGHT
</b>
Bob sits at the bar. A few minutes pass as he sits in silence
looking around, drinking a scotch. Chet Baker sings "The
Thrill is Gone" over the stereo.
We see Bob's POV of tables of people talking. JAPANESE WOMEN
SMOKING, AMERICAN BUSINESSMEN tying one on, talking about
software sales. A WAITER carefully setting down a coaster,
and pouring a beer very, very slowly. It's all very foreign.
<b> CUT TO:
</b>
<b> INT. BOB'S HOTEL ROOM - MORNING
</b>
The automatic hotel curtains open, pouring light into the
room.
<b> CUT TO:
</b>
<b> INT.HOTEL BATHROOM - DAY
</b>
Bob gets in the shower overlooking the view of Tokyo. The
shower head is at his elbows, he raises it as high as it
goes, and leans down to have a shower. This hotel was not
designed with him in mind.
<b> CUT TO:
</b>
<b> INT. STUDIO - DAY
</b>
Whiskey commercial shoot.
The set is full of activity as the JAPANESE CREW work. Bob,
in a shawl collared tuxedo sits at a European style bar set
with a cut crystal glass of whiskey. A JAPANESE GIRL quickly
powders his face as they adjust lights and the DIRECTOR and
crew speak in hurried Japanese.
The Director (with blue contact lenses) says a few long
sentences in Japanese.
TRANSLATOR, a middle-aged woman in a coordinated outfit,
translates but it is only a short sentence now.
<b> TRANSLATOR
</b> He wants you to turn, look in camera
and say the lines.
Bob wonders what she's leaving out, or if that's the way it
works from Japanese to English.
<b> BOB
</b> That's all he said?
<b> TRANSLATOR
</b> Yes, turn to camera.
Bob thinks let's just get it over with.
<b> BOB
</b> Turn left or right?
The Translator blots her face with a tissue, and asks the
director in a Japanese sentence 5 times as long. The Director
answers her in a long excited phrase.
<b> TRANSLATOR
</b> Right side. And with intensity.
<b> BOB
</b> Is that everything? It seemed like
he was saying a lot more.
The excited Director says more in Japanese. Translator nods
in understanding. Bob doesn't really know what's going on.
<b> TRANSLATOR
</b> Like an old friend, and into the
camera.
<b> DIRECTOR
</b> (to Bob))
Suntory Time!
They get ready, and roll camera:
Bob turns and looks suavely to the camera:
<b> BOB
</b> For relaxing times, make it Suntory
Time.
The Director yells something about ten sentences long. The
translator nods.
<b> TRANSLATOR
</b> Could you do it slower, and with
more intensity?
<b> BOB
</b> Okay.
The Translator answers for him in four sentences.
ON THE MONITOR - we see the next take: the moody lighting
shines on Bob, the camera gets closer as he stares into camera
and gives them the line.
<
|
camera
|
How many times does the word 'camera' appear in the text?
| 2
|
every
other mineral paint out of the market. Why' says he, 'it'll drive 'em
right into the Back Bay!' Of course, I didn't know what the Back Bay
was then, but I begun to open my eyes; thought I'd had 'em open before,
but I guess I hadn't. Says he, 'That paint has got hydraulic cement in
it, and it can stand fire and water and acids;' he named over a lot of
things. Says he, 'It'll mix easily with linseed oil, whether you want
to use it boiled or raw; and it ain't a-going to crack nor fade any;
and it ain't a-going to scale. When you've got your arrangements for
burning it properly, you're going to have a paint that will stand like
the everlasting hills, in every climate under the sun.' Then he went
into a lot of particulars, and I begun to think he was drawing a
long-bow, and meant to make his bill accordingly. So I kept pretty
cool; but the fellow's bill didn't amount to anything hardly--said I
might pay him after I got going; young chap, and pretty easy; but every
word he said was gospel. Well, I ain't a-going to brag up my paint; I
don't suppose you came here to hear me blow."
"Oh yes, I did," said Bartley. "That's what I want. Tell all there is
to tell, and I can boil it down afterward. A man can't make a greater
mistake with a reporter than to hold back anything out of modesty. It
may be the very thing we want to know. What we want is the whole
truth; and more; we've got so much modesty of our own that we can
temper almost any statement."
Lapham looked as if he did not quite like this tone, and he resumed a
little more quietly. "Oh, there isn't really very much more to say
about the paint itself. But you can use it for almost anything where a
paint is wanted, inside or out. It'll prevent decay, and it'll stop
it, after it's begun, in tin or iron. You can paint the inside of a
cistern or a bath-tub with it, and water won't hurt it; and you can
paint a steam-boiler with it, and heat won't. You can cover a brick
wall with it, or a railroad car, or the deck of a steamboat, and you
can't do a better thing for either."
"Never tried it on the human conscience, I suppose," suggested Bartley.
"No, sir," replied Lapham gravely. "I guess you want to keep that as
free from paint as you can, if you want much use of it. I never cared
to try any of it on mine." Lapham suddenly lifted his bulk up out of
his swivel-chair, and led the way out into the wareroom beyond the
office partitions, where rows and ranks of casks, barrels, and kegs
stretched dimly back to the rear of the building, and diffused an
honest, clean, wholesome smell of oil and paint. They were labelled
and branded as containing each so many pounds of Lapham's Mineral
Paint, and each bore the mystic devices, N.L.f. 1835--S.L.t. 1855.
"There!" said Lapham, kicking one of the largest casks with the toe of
his boot, "that's about our biggest package; and here," he added,
laying his hand affectionately on the head of a very small keg, as if
it were the head of a child, which it resembled in size, "this is the
smallest. We used to put the paint on the market dry, but now we grind
every ounce of it in oil--very best quality of linseed oil--and warrant
it. We find it gives more satisfaction. Now, come back to the office,
and I'll show you our fancy brands."
It was very cool and pleasant in that dim wareroom, with the rafters
showing overhead in a cloudy perspective, and darkening away into the
perpetual twilight at the rear of the building; and Bartley had found
an agreeable seat on the head of a half-barrel of the paint, which he
was reluctant to leave. But he rose and followed the vigorous lead of
Lapham back to the office, where the sun of a long summer afternoon was
just beginning to glare in at the window. On shelves opposite Lapham's
desk were tin cans of various sizes, arranged in tapering cylinders,
and showing, in a pattern diminishing toward the top, the same label
borne by the casks and barrels in the wareroom. Lapham merely waved
his hand toward these; but when Bartley, after a comprehensive glance
at them, gave his whole attention to a row of clean, smooth jars, where
different tints of the paint showed through flawless glass, Lapham
smiled, and waited in pleased expectation.
"Hello!" said Bartley. "That's pretty!"
"Yes," assented Lapham, "it is rather nice. It's our latest thing, and
we find it takes with customers first-rate. Look here!" he said, taking
down one of the jars, and pointing to the first line of the label.
Bartley read, "THE PERSIS BRAND," and then he looked at Lapham and
smiled.
"After HER, of course," said Lapham. "Got it up and put the first of
it on the market her last birthday. She was pleased."
"I should think she might have been," said Bartley, while he made a
note of the appearance of the jars.
"I don't know about your mentioning it in your interview," said Lapham
dubiously.
"That's going into the interview, Mr. Lapham, if nothing else does.
Got a wife myself, and I know just how you feel." It was in the dawn of
Bartley's prosperity on the Boston Events, before his troubles with
Marcia had seriously begun.
"Is that so?" said Lapham, recognising with a smile another of the vast
majority of married Americans; a few underrate their wives, but the
rest think them supernal in intelligence and capability. "Well," he
added, "we must see about that. Where'd you say you lived?"
"We don't live; we board. Mrs. Nash, 13 Canary Place."
"Well, we've all got to commence that way," suggested Lapham
consolingly.
"Yes; but we've about got to the end of our string. I expect to be
under a roof of my own on Clover Street before long. I suppose," said
Bartley, returning to business, "that you didn't let the grass grow
under your feet much after you found out what was in your paint-mine?"
"No, sir," answered Lapham, withdrawing his eyes from a long stare at
Bartley, in which he had been seeing himself a young man again, in the
first days of his married life. "I went right back to Lumberville and
sold out everything, and put all I could rake and scrape together into
paint. And Mis' Lapham was with me every time. No hang back about
HER. I tell you she was a WOMAN!"
Bartley laughed. "That's the sort most of us marry."
"No, we don't," said Lapham. "Most of us marry silly little girls
grown up to LOOK like women."
"Well, I guess that's about so," assented Bartley, as if upon second
thought.
"If it hadn't been for her," resumed Lapham, "the paint wouldn't have
come to anything. I used to tell her it wa'n't the seventy-five per
cent. of purr-ox-eyed of iron in the ORE that made that paint go; it
was the seventy-five per cent. of purr-ox-eyed of iron in HER."
"Good!" cried Bartley. "I'll tell Marcia that."
"In less'n six months there wa'n't a board-fence, nor a bridge-girder,
nor a dead wall, nor a barn, nor a face of rock in that whole region
that didn't have 'Lapham's Mineral Paint--Specimen' on it in the three
colours we begun by making." Bartley had taken his seat on the
window-sill, and Lapham, standing before him, now put up his huge foot
close to Bartley's thigh; neither of them minded that.
"I've heard a good deal of talk about that S.T.--1860--X. man, and the
stove-blacking man, and the kidney-cure man, because they advertised in
that way; and I've read articles about it in the papers; but I don't
see where the joke comes in, exactly. So long as the people that own
the barns and fences don't object, I don't see what the public has got
to do with it. And I never saw anything so very sacred about a big
rock, along a river or in a pasture, that it wouldn't do to put mineral
paint on it in three colours. I wish some of the people that talk
about the landscape, and WRITE about it, had to bu'st one of them rocks
OUT of the landscape with powder, or dig a hole to bury it in, as we
used to have to do up on the farm; I guess they'd sing a little
different tune about the profanation of scenery. There ain't any man
enjoys a sightly bit of nature--a smooth piece of interval with half a
dozen good-sized wine-glass elms in it--more than I do. But I ain't
a-going to stand up for every big ugly rock I come across, as if we
were all a set of dumn Druids. I say the landscape was made for man,
and not man for the landscape."
"Yes," said Bartley carelessly; "it was made for the stove-polish man
and the kidney-cure man."
"It was made for any man that knows how to use it," Lapham returned,
insensible to Bartley's irony. "Let 'em go and live with nature in the
WINTER, up there along the Canada line, and I guess they'll get enough
of her for one while. Well--where was I?"
"Decorating the landscape," said Bartley.
"Yes, sir; I started right there at Lumberville, and it give the place
a start too. You won't find it on the map now; and you won't find it
in the gazetteer. I give a pretty good lump of money to build a
town-hall, about five years back, and the first meeting they held in it
they voted to change the name,--Lumberville WA'N'T a name,--and it's
Lapham now."
"Isn't it somewhere up in that region that they get the old Brandon
red?" asked Bartley.
"We're about ninety miles from Brandon. The Brandon's a good paint,"
said Lapham conscientiously. "Like to show you round up at our place
some odd time, if you get off."
"Thanks. I should like it first-rate. WORKS there?"
"Yes; works there. Well, sir, just about the time I got started, the
war broke out; and it knocked my paint higher than a kite. The thing
dropped perfectly dead. I presume that if I'd had any sort of
influence, I might have got it into Government hands, for gun-carriages
and army wagons, and may be on board Government vessels. But I hadn't,
and we had to face the music. I was about broken-hearted, but m'wife
she looked at it another way. 'I guess it's a providence,' says she.
'Silas, I guess you've got a country that's worth fighting for. Any
rate, you better go out and give it a chance.' Well, sir, I went. I
knew she meant business. It might kill her to have me go, but it would
kill her sure if I stayed. She was one of that kind. I went. Her
last words was, 'I'll look after the paint, Si.' We hadn't but just one
little girl then,--boy'd died,--and Mis' Lapham's mother was livin'
with us; and I knew if times DID anyways come up again, m'wife'd know
just what to do. So I went. I got through; and you can call me
Colonel, if you want to. Feel there!" Lapham took Bartley's thumb and
forefinger and put them on a bunch in his leg, just above the knee.
"Anything hard?"
"Ball?"
Lapham nodded. "Gettysburg. That's my thermometer. If it wa'n't for
that, I shouldn't know enough to come in when it rains."
Bartley laughed at a joke which betrayed some evidences of wear. "And
when you came back, you took hold of the paint and rushed it."
"I took hold of the paint and rushed it--all I could," said Lapham,
with less satisfaction than he had hitherto shown in his autobiography.
"But I found that I had got back to another world. The day of small
things was past, and I don't suppose it will ever come again in this
country. My wife was at me all the time to take a partner--somebody
with capital; but I couldn't seem to bear the idea. That paint was
like my own blood to me. To have anybody else concerned in it was
like--well, I don't know what. I saw it was the thing to do; but I
tried to fight it off, and I tried to joke it off. I used to say, 'Why
didn't you take a partner yourself, Persis, while I was away?' And
she'd say, 'Well, if you hadn't come back, I should, Si.' Always DID
like a joke about as well as any woman I ever saw. Well, I had to come
to it. I took a partner." Lapham dropped the bold blue eyes with which
he had been till now staring into Bartley's face, and the reporter knew
that here was a place for asterisks in his interview, if interviews
were faithful. "He had money enough," continued Lapham, with a
suppressed sigh; "but he didn't know anything about paint. We hung on
together for a year or two. And then we quit."
"And he had the experience," suggested Bartley, with companionable ease.
"I had some of the experience too," said Lapham, with a scowl; and
Bartley divined, through the freemasonry of all who have
|
back
|
How many times does the word 'back' appear in the text?
| 3
|
truth. When what you really should
do is go to work and go home.
<b> CLUB MEMBER #2
</b> And take golf lessons.
<b> CLUB MEMBER #1
</b> That's a tragedy. Can I finish my
story please? I began my search for
meaning. I was a Catholic, Jew,
Scientologist, Sufi, Buddhist. I
went to a Psychologist, psychiatrist,
herbalist, nutritionist, a shaman,
and a psychic. And they all pretty
much say the same stuff.
<b> CLUB MEMBER #2
</b> A Jew, a shaman, and a herbalist are
telling you the same thing? You're
insane.
<b> CLUB MEMBER #1
</b> Basically the same thing. In a very
evolved, esoteric way.
<b> CLUB MEMBER #2
</b> Insane.
<b> CLUB MEMBER #1
</b> To make a long story short...
<b> CLUB MEMBER #3
</b> --Thank God--
<b> CLUB MEMBER #1
</b> ...at last I found the holistic system
of systems that opened up the doors
of heaven for me right here on earth.
And everyday I see the world through
the eyes of a child. A world of
creation and wonder.
<b> CLUB MEMBER #2
</b> Jesus...
<b> CLUB MEMBER #1
</b> Overflowing with love.
<b> MARTIN
</b> Tell me about it.
Club Member #1 turns to Martin.
<b> CLUB MEMBER #1
</b> P.P.P. Personal Pan Power. All the
secrets of your universe are divided
up into eight easily digestible
slices.
Club Member #1 pulls a laminated card from his wallet and
hands it over to Martin. In the distance, sirens begin to
wail.
<b> CLUB MEMBER #1
</b> See, see. It's in the accessible and
everyday shape of a pan pizza. Each
day you have a little slice of
peace...
<b> INSERT - WALLET-SIZE P.P.P. CARD
</b>
A pizza-shaped diagram showing six "sections".
<b> MARTIN
</b> Oh I see. You got your individual
slices of hope, dignity, confidence,
self-love, justice, and harmony.
<b> CLUB MEMBER #1
</b> You open 'em up and there's the
sayings, stories, little bites of
insight. It's the P.P.P. Six Day
Week.
<b> MARTIN
</b> So you eat-- read it everyday?
<b> CLUB MEMBER #1
</b> Yes.
<b> MARTIN
</b> And these pan pizzas have opened up
the doors to heaven?
<b> CLUB MEMBER #1
</b> Correct.
(re: the card)
That's for you. Keep it.
Sirens are getting louder, closer to the club.
<b> EXT. COUNTRY CLUB - DAY
</b>
The source of the sirens are almost upon us. Martin walks
toward his rented Town Car as the VALET pulls it up. He meets
the Valet by the trunk, where he trades tip for keys.
<b> MARTIN AT CAR
</b> He fishes out the laminated "Personal
Pan Power" card, looks at it, and
tosses it onto the ground. Police
cars, now visible in the distance,
wind into the long club driveway.
Martin gets into his car and pulls
away.
<b> LAMINATED CARD
</b>
As it lays on the asphalt. The wheel of a police car rolls
to a stop on it.
<b> INT. AIRLINER - DAY
</b>
Martin sits in a first class seat, the tray table flipped
down. On the left side of the tray is a stack of magazines
of all kinds - Sports Illustrated, Mademoiselle, Wired,
Rolling Stone, National Review, Spin, National Geographic,
and on. He draws one off the top, and flips through it,
impassively taking in images and reading nothing. When he is
done with one, he discards it into the empty seat next to
him and draws another-- Martin's way of instantly and
massively uploading the world around him:
Toothless hockey player in triumph, Sony product parade,
crouched starving child with vulture in the background,
supermodel in suede, Tic Tacs, living former Presidents, arm
in arm, smiling, etc.
<b> INT. HIRED CAR, NEW YORK - DAY
</b>
The livery weaves out of the arrival lanes at Kennedy airport.
Martin reclines in the back seat, a conversation having
already begun.
<b> DRIVER
</b> How was your day, today, sir?
<b> MARTIN
</b> Effective. But to tell you the truth,
I've lost my passion for work.
<b> DRIVER
</b> Do you like the people you work with?
<b> MARTIN
</b> I work alone.
<b> DRIVER
</b> That's it then. That's it. I've always
been alone. That's why I'm a good
driver. I can handle it. See, I can
think on my feet. I survive, I'm a
thinker. And I can sit there in front
of your house for two hours and it
don't bother me. Some people can't
do it! Some people are ranting and
raving, "Tell them fuckin' people to
get out here and get in this car, I
can't-- I want a go!" Where you gonna
go? You're gonna wind up back in
your garage at seven o'clock at night.
You ain't going nowhere. You leave
your house in the morning you get
back to your house in the evening.
What's the big deal, right?
<b> MARTIN
</b> You understand the psychology of the
job.
<b> DRIVER
</b> I do. Some guys can't adjust to it;
they can't handle it.
<b> INT. CAR - MANHATTAN STREETS - LATER
</b>
The car cuts through the upper east side. Martin and the
Driver exchange looks through the rear-view mirror.
<b> DRIVER
</b> You look like you're far away. Far
away and thinking about other things.
I'm right about that, aren't I?
<b> MARTIN
</b> No.
<b> DRIVER
</b> Well, let's just say that sometimes
I'm right. Sometimes you are.
<b> MARTIN
</b> Sometimes I am. Sometimes. It's only
natural.
<b> DRIVER
</b> (laughs to himself at
this great truth)
It's only natural....
The Driver pauses for dramatic emphasis
<b> DRIVER
</b> I been looking at you, and I've
decided that I want to share something
with you.
<b> MARTIN
</b> Okay.
<b> DRIVER
</b> Because your problem is you're bored.
And you have a very big mind.
(beat)
I am part of what I call a brain
syndicate.
No reaction from Martin.
<b> DRIVER
</b> I am part of a network of minds, a
group of five people who are all
connected, over hundreds, even
thousands of miles, through the mind.
We can think with each other, think
for each other. I can be driving
somewhere, sleeping with a woman--
whatever it is-- and at the same
time be thinking a thought in someone
else's mind, far away. Running someone
else's brain.
<b> MARTIN
</b> (indicates)
Up on the right.
<b> DRIVER
</b> And when you think of it, it's not
so surprising that a small group of
people control the whole world, is
it?
<b> INT. HOTEL ROOM, NEW YORK CITY - DAY
</b>
A sedate and well-appointed four-star suite on the Upper
East Side. Martin stands in front of one of the open windows
watching the canopied entrance of an elegant high-rise across
the street. He lifts an eye rinse cup to his eye and tilts
it back. A cellular phone RINGS, interrupting him. He moves
to the desk and draws one of three phones from his briefcase,
depresses a scrambler module, flips it open, and listens for
a moment.
<b> MARTIN
</b> If it's not there, I can't proceed.
Tell them.
Martin hangs up. Picks up another phone and dials. As he
waits for an answer, he goes to a Fed Ex blueprint tube lying
on the bed.
<b> MARTIN
</b> Tom. I've been waiting for an answer.
I'm only in town tonight.
He breaks the shipping seal and pulls out a series of finished
metal parts including a long thin barrel, a scope, and a
silencer.
<b> MARTIN
</b> What's different this time than the
last time? I have to be down front...
<b> INT. HOTEL ROOM - SAME
</b>
Martin stands in front of the window, phone in one hand, the
scope in the other. Next to him, the assembled rifle rests
across the arm of a chair.
<b> MARTIN
</b> ...I don't bother to call anyone
else because you always take care of
me.
He glances over to a second window to his left, which offers
a view further down the street. He goes to it. He raises the
scope and sees
<b> MARTIN'S P.O.V./SCOPE- WINDOW #2
</b>
A few blocks down, small even through the high-powered scope,
is your average BICYCLE MESSENGER dressed in lycra racing
gear, weaving through traffic toward us. Slung low across
his right hip is a black canvas bag. The Messenger's hand is
hidden in it. The other phone begins to RING.
<b> MARTIN
</b> Hold on a second, Tom. I got my hands
full here.
He sets down the phone and answers the other, still watching
the messenger.
<b> MARTIN
</b> Good. Account number 3649367, transfer
to account number 96-546-38739-47825.
Ask for Mr. Sanchez, tell him it's
Mr. Duckman. If there are any
problems, access file 673594638-IO-
98, and look at it.
Martin drops the phone and moves away from Window #2 to the
rifle. He mounts the scope and he looks out Window #1 at the
high-rise.
<b> MARTIN'S P.O.V./SCOPE - WINDOW #1
</b>
Of a DOORMAN opening the door for a group of five men in
suits. Four BODYGUARDS form a perimeter around the fifth
man, a mall, avuncular figure in his forties dressed in
Saville Row finery.
<b> MARTIN
</b>
Takes a step back into the shadows of the room, and raises
the rifle toward Window #2.
<b> MARTIN'S P
|
your
|
How many times does the word 'your' appear in the text?
| 2
|
intermeddle about some of his.
"Who is that fat bouncing dame that visits the laird so often, and
always by herself?" said she to her maid Martha one day.
"Oh dear, mem, how can I ken? We're banished frae our acquaintances
here, as weel as frae the sweet gospel ordinances."
"Find me out who that jolly dame is, Martha. You, who hold communion
with the household of this ungodly man, can be at no loss to attain
this information. I observe that she always casts her eye up toward our
windows, both in coming and going; and I suspect that she seldom
departs from the house emptyhanded."
That same evening Martha came with the information that this august
visitor was a Miss Logan, an old and intimate acquaintance of the
laird's, and a very worthy respectable lady, of good connections, whose
parents had lost their patrimony in the civil wars.
"Ha! very well!" said the lady; "very well, Martha! But, nevertheless,
go thou and watch this respectable lady's motions and behaviour the
next time she comes to visit the laird--and the next after that. You
will not, I see, lack opportunities."
Martha's information turned out of that nature that prayers were said
in the uppermost story of Dalcastle house against the Canaanitish
woman, every night and every morning; and great discontent prevailed
there, even to anathemas and tears. Letter after letter was dispatched
to Glasgow; and at length, to the lady's great consolation, the Rev.
Mr. Wringhim arrived safely and devoutly in her elevated sanctuary.
Marvellous was the conversation between these gifted people. Wringhim
had held in his doctrines that there were eight different kinds of
FAITH, all perfectly distinct in their operations and effects. But the
lady, in her secluded state, had discovered another five, making twelve
[sic] in all: the adjusting of the existence or fallacy of these five
faiths served for a most enlightened discussion of nearly seventeen
hours; in the course of which the two got warm in their arguments,
always in proportion as they receded from nature, utility, and common
sense. Wringhim at length got into unwonted fervour about some disputed
point between one of these faiths and TRUST: when the lady, fearing
that zeal was getting beyond its wonted barrier, broke in on his
vehement asseverations with the following abrupt discomfiture: "But,
Sir, as long as I remember, what is to be done with this case of open
and avowed iniquity?"
The minister was struck dumb. He leaned him back on his chair, stroked
his beard, hemmed--considered, and hemmed again, and then said, in an
altered and softened tone: "Why, that is a secondary consideration; you
mean the case between your husband and Miss Logan?"
"The same, Sir. I am scandalized at such intimacies going on under my
nose. The sufferance of it is a great and crying evil."
"Evil, madam, may be either operative, or passive. To them it is an
evil, but to us none. We have no more to do with the sins of the wicked
and unconverted here than with those of an infidel Turk; for all
earthly bonds and fellowships are absorbed and swallowed up in the holy
community of the Reformed Church. However, if it is your wish, I shall
take him to task, and reprimand and humble him in such a manner that he
shall be ashamed of his doings, and renounce such deeds for ever, out
of mere self-respect, though all unsanctified the heart, as well as the
deed, may be. To the wicked, all things are wicked; but to the just,
all things are just and right."
"Ah, that is a sweet and comfortable saying, Mr. Wringhim! How
delightful to think that a justified person can do no wrong! Who would
not envy the liberty wherewith we are made free? Go to my husband, that
poor unfortunate, blindfolded person, and open his eyes to his
degenerate and sinful state; for well are you fitted to the task."
"Yea, I will go in unto him, and confound him. I will lay the strong
holds of sin and Satan as flat before my face as the dung that is
spread out to fatten the land."
"Master, there's a gentleman at the fore-door wants a private word o'
ye."
"Tell him I'm engaged: I can't see any gentleman to-night. But I shall
attend on him to-morrow as soon as he pleases."
"'He's coming straight in, Sir. Stop a wee bit, Sir, my master is
engaged. He cannot see you at present, Sir."
"Stand aside, thou Moabite! My mission admits of no delay. I come to
save him from the jaws of destruction!"
"An that be the case, Sir, it maks a wide difference; an', as the
danger may threaten us a', I fancy I may as weel let ye gang by as
fight wi' ye, sin' ye seem sae intent on 't.--The man says he's comin'
to save ye, an' canna stop, Sir. Here he is."
The laird was going to break out into a volley of wrath against Waters,
his servant; but, before he got a word pronounced, the Rev. Mr.
Wringhim had stepped inside the room, and Waters had retired, shutting
the door behind him.
No introduction could be more mal-a-propos: it was impossible; for at
that very moment the laird and Arabella Logan were both sitting on one
seat, and both looking on one book, when the door opened. "What is it,
Sir?" said the laird fiercely.
"A message of the greatest importance, Sir," said the divine, striding
unceremoniously up to the chimney, turning his back to the fire, and
his face to the culprits. "I think you should know me, Sir?" continued
he, looking displeasedly at the laird, with his face half turned round.
"I think I should," returned the laird. "You are a Mr.
How's--tey--ca'--him, of Glasgow, who did me the worst turn ever I got
done to me in my life. You gentry are always ready to do a man such a
turn. Pray, Sir, did you ever do a good job for anyone to
counterbalance that? For, if you have not, you ought to be--"
"Hold, Sir, I say! None of your profanity before me. If I do evil to
anyone on such occasions, it is because he will have it so; therefore,
the evil is not of my doing. I ask you, Sir, before God and this
witness, I ask you, have you kept solemnly and inviolate the vows which
I laid upon you that day? Answer me!"
"Has the partner whom you bound me to kept hers inviolate? Answer me
that, Sir! None can better do so than you, Mr. How's--tey--ca'--you."
"So, then, you confess your backslidings, and avow the profligacy of
your life. And this person here is, I suppose, the partner of your
iniquity--she whose beauty hath caused you to err! Stand up, both of
you, till I rebuke you, and show you what you are in the eyes of God
and man."
"In the first place, stand you still there, till I tell you what you
are in the eyes of God and man. You are, Sir, a presumptuous,
self-conceited pedagogue, a stirrer up of strife and commotion in
church, in state, in families, and communities. You are one, Sir, whose
righteousness consists in splitting the doctrines of Calvin into
thousands of undistinguishable films, and in setting up a system of
justifying-grace against all breaches of all laws, moral or divine. In
short, Sir, you are a mildew--a canker-worm in the bosom of the
Reformed Church, generating a disease of which she will never be
purged, but by the shedding of blood. Go thou in peace, and do these
abominations no more; but humble thyself, lest a worse reproof come
upon thee."
Wringhim heard all this without flinching. He now and then twisted his
mouth in disdain, treasuring up, meantime, his vengeance against the
two aggressors; for he felt that he had them on the hip, and resolved
to pour out his vengeance and indignation upon them. Sorry am I that
the shackles of modern decorum restrain me from penning that famous
rebuke; fragments of which have been attributed to every divine of old
notoriety throughout Scotland. But I have it by heart; and a glorious
morsel it is to put into the hands of certain incendiaries. The
metaphors are so strong and so appalling that Miss Logan could only
stand them a very short time; she was obliged to withdraw in confusion.
The laird stood his ground with much ado, though his face was often
crimsoned over with the hues of shame and anger. Several times he was
on the point of turning the officious sycophant to the door; but good
manners, and an inherent respect that he entertained for the clergy,
as the immediate servants of the Supreme Being, restrained him.
Wringhim, perceiving these symptoms of resentment, took them for marks
of shame and contrition, and pushed his reproaches farther than ever
divine ventured to do in a similar case. When he had finished, to
prevent further discussion, he walked slowly and majestically out of
the apartment, making his robes to swing behind him in a most
magisterial manner; he being, without doubt, elated with his high
conquest. He went to the upper story, and related to his metaphysical
associate his wonderful success; how he had driven the dame from the
house in tears and deep confusion, and left the backsliding laird in
such a quandary of shame and repentance that he could neither
articulate a word nor lift up his countenance. The dame thanked him
most cordially, lauding his friendly zeal and powerful eloquence; and
then the two again set keenly to the splitting of hairs, and making
distinctions in religion where none existed.
They being both children of adoption, and secured from falling into
snares, or anyway under the power of the wicked one, it was their
custom, on each visit, to sit up a night in the same apartment, for the
sake of sweet spiritual converse; but that time, in the course of the
night, they differed so materially on a small point somewhere between
justification and final election that the minister, in the heat of his
zeal, sprung from his seat, paced the floor, and maintained his point
with such ardour that Martha was alarmed, and, thinking they were going
to fight, and that the minister would be a hard match for her mistress,
she put on some clothes, and twice left her bed and stood listening at
the back of the door, ready to burst in should need require it. Should
anyone think this picture over-strained, I can assure him that it is
taken from nature and from truth; but I will not likewise aver that the
theologist was neither crazed nor inebriated. If the listener's words
were to be relied on, there was no love, no accommodating principle
manifested between the two, but a fiery burning zeal, relating to
points of such minor importance that a true Christian would blush to
hear them mentioned, and the infidel and profane make a handle of them
to turn our religion to scorn.
Great was the dame's exultation at the triumph of her beloved pastor
over her sinful neighbours in the lower parts of the house; and she
boasted of it to Martha in high-sounding terms. But it was of short
duration; for, in five weeks after that, Arabella Logan came to reside
with the laird as his housekeeper, sitting at his table and carrying
the keys as mistress-substitute of the mansion. The lady's grief and
indignation were now raised to a higher pitch than ever; and she set
every agent to work, with whom she had any power, to effect a
separation between these two suspected ones. Remonstrance was of no
avail: George laughed at them who tried such a course, and retained his
housekeeper, while the lady gave herself up to utter despair; for,
though she would not consort with her husband herself, she could not
endure that any other should do so.
But, to countervail this grievous offence, our saintly and afflicted
dame, in due time, was safely delivered of a fine boy whom the laird
acknowledged as his son and heir, and had him christened by his own
name, and nursed in his own premises. He gave the nurse permission to
take the boy to his mother's presence if ever she should desire to see
him; but, strange as it may appear, she never once desired to see him
from the day that he was born. The boy grew up, and was a healthful and
happy child; and, in the course of another year, the lady presented him
with a brother. A brother he certainly was, in the eye of the law, and
it is more than probable that he was his brother in reality. But the
laird thought otherwise; and, though he knew and acknowledged that he
was obliged to support and provide for him, he refused to acknowledge
him in other respects. He neither would countenance the banquet nor
take the baptismal vows on him in the child's name; of course, the poor
boy had to live and remain an alien from the visible church for a year
and a day; at which time, Mr. Wringhim out of pity and kindness, took
the lady herself as sponsor for the boy, and baptized him by the name
of Robert Wringhim--that being the noted divine's own name.
George was brought up with his father, and educated partly at the
parish school, and partly at home, by a tutor hired for the purpose. He
was a generous and kind-hearted youth; always ready to oblige, and
hardly ever dissatisfied with anybody. Robert was brought up with Mr.
Wringhim, the laird paying a certain allowance for him yearly; and
there the boy was early inured to all the sternness and severity of his
pastor's arbitrary and unyielding creed. He was taught to pray twice
every day, and seven times on Sabbath days; but he was only to pray for
the elect, and, like Devil of old, doom all that were aliens from God
to destruction. He had never, in that family into which he had been as
it were adopted, heard aught but evil spoken of his reputed father and
brother; consequently he held them in utter abhorrence, and prayed
against them every day, often "that the old hoary sinner might be cut
off in the full flush of his in
|
them
|
How many times does the word 'them' appear in the text?
| 3
|
It is beautiful! And so full of life.
But not here.
Here it is completely silent.
<b> SILENCE-
</b>
<b> IN THE DISTANCE-
</b>
A small metal object crosses the empty space surrounding Earth.
If it appears to be a small satellite that is only because it is
far away from us. It is the size of one football field. It is-
The INTERNATIONAL SPACE STATION (ISS).
It resembles a dragonfly. Its solar panels stretch out, like
wings, from the long body made of connected pressurized modules.
It floats with a sense of proud achievement.
It orbits at an altitude of 500 km above sea level. It moves at
an average of 27,700 kilometers per hour, completing 15.7 laps
around the Earth per day.
It is cruising over Zimbabwe. To the East, the island of
Madagascar. Up to the North, the expansive dry lands of Somalia
and Ethiopia.
Soon, the ISS curves around the spherical planet, and it becomes
smaller, almost indistinguishable, no more than a small bright
spec grazing over the blue atmosphere.
<b> CLOSER TO US-
</b>
Orbiting at an altitude of 600 km-
The EXPLORER SPACE SHUTTLE becomes visible.
This icon of space exploration has played a key role in all of
NASA's missions since the late 90's.
Faintly we hear static, voices murmuring over radio frequences.
As the babble bulds we might hear one conversation amongst the
<b> REST:
</b>
<b> MISSION CONTROL
</b> (On radio, faint)
Explorer, please verify that the P1
ATA removal on replacement cap part 1
and 2 are complete.
<b> EXPLORER CAP
</b> (On radio, faint)
DMA M1, M2, M3 and M4 are complete.
<b> MISSION CONTROL
</b> (On radio, faint)
Copy that Explorer. Dr Stone-Houston,
requesting status update...
A fizz of static and then the voice continues with sudden,
starling clarity.
<b> RYAN
</b> Installation ninety-five percent
complete. Running level one
diagnostics on circuits, sensors, and
power. Standby.
<b> MISSION CONTROL
</b><b> (ON RADIO)
</b> Standing by. Looks like we're on
schedule. Dr. Stone, Medical is
concerned about your ECG readings.
<b> RYAN
</b> I'm fine Houston.
<b> MISSION CONTROL
</b><b> (RADIO)
</b> Well, medical doesn't agree doctor.
Are you feeling nauseous?
<b> RYAN
</b> Not any more than usual, Houston.
Diagnostics are green. Linking to
communications card. Ready for data
reception. If this works, when we
touch down tomorrow, I'm buying all
you guys a round of drinks.
<b> MISSION CONTROL
</b><b> (RADIO)
</b> That's a date, doctor. Just remember,
Houston is partial to Margaritas.
<b> RYAN
</b> OK, here we go... Booting comm card
now. Please confirm link.
<b> (BEAT)
</b> Houston, please confirm reception of
data.
<b> MISSION CONTROL
</b><b> (ON RADIO)
</b> Negative. We're not seeing any data.
<b> RYAN
</b> Stand by, Houston. I'm gonna reboot
the comm card.
<b> MISSION CONTROL
</b><b> (RADIO)
</b> Standing by.
An ASTRONAUT - MATT KOWALSKI - floats thirty meters away from
the Shuttle wearing a bulky white space suit and a full, bubble-
like helmet.
<b> ASTRONAUT
</b> Houston, I have a bad feeling about
this mission.
<b> MISSION CONTROL
</b> Please expand.
<b> MATT
</b> Okay, let me tell you a story. It was
'96. I'd been up here 42 days. Every
time I passed over Texas, I'd look
down, knowing the second Mrs Kowalsky,
was looking up, thinking of me. Six
weeks I'm blowing kisses to that
woman. Then we land at Edwards and I
find out she'd run off with a lawyer
before I was off the launch pad, so I
packed my car and I headed to...
<b> MISSION CONTROL
</b> Tijuana. You've told this story,
Kowalsky. As Houston recalls, she
took off in your '74 GTO. Engineering
requests fuel status on the jet pack
prototype.
|
mission
|
How many times does the word 'mission' appear in the text?
| 3
|
, is assumed. Not
much to go on, certainly. Didn't you say that you have sent him money?"
"Twice."
"And how?"
"In notes to Camberwell post office."
"Did you ever trouble to see who called for them?"
"No."
The inspector looked surprised and a little shocked. "Why not?"
"Because I always keep faith. I had promised when he first wrote that I
would not try to trace him."
"You think there is someone behind him?"
"I know there is."
"This professor that I've heard you mention?"
"Exactly!"
Inspector MacDonald smiled, and his eyelid quivered as he glanced
towards me. "I won't conceal from you, Mr. Holmes, that we think in
the C.I.D. that you have a wee bit of a bee in your bonnet over this
professor. I made some inquiries myself about the matter. He seems to be
a very respectable, learned, and talented sort of man."
"I'm glad you've got so far as to recognize the talent."
"Man, you can't but recognize it! After I heard your view I made it my
business to see him. I had a chat with him on eclipses. How the talk got
that way I canna think; but he had out a reflector lantern and a globe,
and made it all clear in a minute. He lent me a book; but I don't mind
saying that it was a bit above my head, though I had a good Aberdeen
upbringing. He'd have made a grand meenister with his thin face and gray
hair and solemn-like way of talking. When he put his hand on my shoulder
as we were parting, it was like a father's blessing before you go out
into the cold, cruel world."
Holmes chuckled and rubbed his hands. "Great!" he said. "Great! Tell me,
Friend MacDonald, this pleasing and touching interview was, I suppose,
in the professor's study?"
"That's so."
"A fine room, is it not?"
"Very fine--very handsome indeed, Mr. Holmes."
"You sat in front of his writing desk?"
"Just so."
"Sun in your eyes and his face in the shadow?"
"Well, it was evening; but I mind that the lamp was turned on my face."
"It would be. Did you happen to observe a picture over the professor's
head?"
"I don't miss much, Mr. Holmes. Maybe I learned that from you. Yes, I
saw the picture--a young woman with her head on her hands, peeping at
you sideways."
"That painting was by Jean Baptiste Greuze."
The inspector endeavoured to look interested.
"Jean Baptiste Greuze," Holmes continued, joining his finger tips and
leaning well back in his chair, "was a French artist who flourished
between the years 1750 and 1800. I allude, of course to his working
career. Modern criticism has more than indorsed the high opinion formed
of him by his contemporaries."
The inspector's eyes grew abstracted. "Hadn't we better--" he said.
"We are doing so," Holmes interrupted. "All that I am saying has a
very direct and vital bearing upon what you have called the Birlstone
Mystery. In fact, it may in a sense be called the very centre of it."
MacDonald smiled feebly, and looked appealingly to me. "Your thoughts
move a bit too quick for me, Mr. Holmes. You leave out a link or two,
and I can't get over the gap. What in the whole wide world can be the
connection between this dead painting man and the affair at Birlstone?"
"All knowledge comes useful to the detective," remarked Holmes. "Even
the trivial fact that in the year 1865 a picture by Greuze entitled
La Jeune Fille a l'Agneau fetched one million two hundred thousand
francs--more than forty thousand pounds--at the Portalis sale may start
a train of reflection in your mind."
It was clear that it did. The inspector looked honestly interested.
"I may remind you," Holmes continued, "that the professor's salary can
be ascertained in several trustworthy books of reference. It is seven
hundred a year."
"Then how could he buy--"
"Quite so! How could he?"
"Ay, that's remarkable," said the inspector thoughtfully. "Talk away,
Mr. Holmes. I'm just loving it. It's fine!"
Holmes smiled. He was always warmed by genuine admiration--the
characteristic of the real artist. "What about Birlstone?" he asked.
"We've time yet," said the inspector, glancing at his watch. "I've a cab
at the door, and it won't take us twenty minutes to Victoria. But about
this picture: I thought you told me once, Mr. Holmes, that you had never
met Professor Moriarty."
"No, I never have."
"Then how do you know about his rooms?"
"Ah, that's another matter. I have been three times in his rooms, twice
waiting for him under different pretexts and leaving before he came.
Once--well, I can hardly tell about the once to an official detective.
It was on the last occasion that I took the liberty of running over his
papers--with the most unexpected results."
"You found something compromising?"
"Absolutely nothing. That was what amazed me. However, you have now seen
the point of the picture. It shows him to be a very wealthy man. How
did he acquire wealth? He is unmarried. His younger brother is a station
master in the west of England. His chair is worth seven hundred a year.
And he owns a Greuze."
"Well?"
"Surely the inference is plain."
"You mean that he has a great income and that he must earn it in an
illegal fashion?"
"Exactly. Of course I have other reasons for thinking so--dozens of
exiguous threads which lead vaguely up towards the centre of the web
where the poisonous, motionless creature is lurking. I only mention
the Greuze because it brings the matter within the range of your own
observation."
"Well, Mr. Holmes, I admit that what you say is interesting: it's more
than interesting--it's just wonderful. But let us have it a little
clearer if you can. Is it forgery, coining, burglary--where does the
money come from?"
"Have you ever read of Jonathan Wild?"
"Well, the name has a familiar sound. Someone in a novel, was he not? I
don't take much stock of detectives in novels--chaps that do things
and never let you see how they do them. That's just inspiration: not
business."
"Jonathan Wild wasn't a detective, and he wasn't in a novel. He was a
master criminal, and he lived last century--1750 or thereabouts."
"Then he's no use to me. I'm a practical man."
"Mr. Mac, the most practical thing that you ever did in your life would
be to shut yourself up for three months and read twelve hours a day
at the annals of crime. Everything comes in circles--even Professor
Moriarty. Jonathan Wild was the hidden force of the London criminals,
to whom he sold his brains and his organization on a fifteen per cent.
commission. The old wheel turns, and the same spoke comes up. It's all
been done before, and will be again. I'll tell you one or two things
about Moriarty which may interest you."
"You'll interest me, right enough."
"I happen to know who is the first link in his chain--a chain with
this Napoleon-gone-wrong at one end, and a hundred broken fighting men,
pickpockets, blackmailers, and card sharpers at the other, with every
sort of crime in between. His chief of staff is Colonel Sebastian Moran,
as aloof and guarded and inaccessible to the law as himself. What do you
think he pays him?"
"I'd like to hear."
"Six thousand a year. That's paying for brains, you see--the American
business principle. I learned that detail quite by chance. It's more
than the Prime Minister gets. That gives you an idea of Moriarty's gains
and of the scale on which he works. Another point: I made it my business
to hunt down some of Moriarty's checks lately--just common innocent
checks that he pays his household bills with. They were drawn on six
different banks. Does that make any impression on your mind?"
"Queer, certainly! But what do you gather from it?"
"That he wanted no gossip about his wealth. No single man should know
what he had. I have no doubt that he has twenty banking accounts; the
bulk of his fortune abroad in the Deutsche Bank or the Credit Lyonnais
as likely as not. Sometime when you have a year or two to spare I
commend to you the study of Professor Moriarty."
Inspector MacDonald had grown steadily more impressed as the
conversation proceeded. He had lost himself in his interest. Now his
practical Scotch intelligence brought him back with a snap to the matter
in hand.
"He can keep, anyhow," said he. "You've got us side-tracked with your
interesting anecdotes, Mr. Holmes. What really counts is your remark
that there is some connection between the professor and the crime. That
you get from the warning received through the man Porlock. Can we for
our present practical needs get any further than that?"
"We may form some conception as to the motives of the crime. It is, as
I gather from your original remarks, an inexplicable, or at least an
unexplained, murder. Now, presuming that the source of the crime is as
we suspect it to be, there might be two different motives. In the first
place, I may tell you that Moriarty rules with a rod of iron over his
people. His discipline is tremendous. There is only one punishment in
his code. It is death. Now we might suppose that this murdered man--this
Douglas whose approaching fate was known by one of the arch-criminal's
subordinates--had in some way betrayed the chief. His punishment
followed, and would be known to all--if only to put the fear of death
into them."
"Well, that is one suggestion, Mr. Holmes."
"The other is that it has been engineered by Moriarty in the ordinary
course of business. Was there any robbery?"
"I have not heard."
"If so, it would, of course, be against the first hypothesis and in
favour of the second. Moriarty may have been engaged to engineer it on a
promise of part spoils, or he may have been paid so much down to manage
it. Either is possible. But whichever it may be, or if it is some third
combination, it is down at Birlstone that we must seek the solution. I
know our man too well to suppose that he has left anything up here which
may lead us to him."
"Then to Birlstone we must go!" cried MacDonald, jumping from his chair.
"My word! it's later than I thought. I can give you, gentlemen, five
minutes for preparation, and that is all."
"And ample for us both," said Holmes, as he sprang up and hastened to
change from his dressing gown to his coat. "While we are on our way, Mr.
Mac, I will ask you to be good enough to tell me all about it."
"All about it" proved to be disappointingly little, and yet there was
enough to assure us that the case before us might well be worthy of
the expert's closest attention. He brightened and rubbed his thin hands
together as he listened to the meagre but remarkable details. A long
series of sterile weeks lay behind us, and here at last there was a
fitting object for those remarkable powers which, like all special
gifts, become irksome to their owner when they are not in use. That
razor brain blunted and rusted with inaction.
Sherlock Holmes's eyes glistened, his pale cheeks took a warmer hue, and
his whole eager face shone with an inward light when the call for
work reached him. Leaning forward in the cab, he listened intently to
MacDonald's short sketch of the problem which awaited us in Sussex. The
inspector was himself dependent, as he explained to us, upon a scribbled
account forwarded to him by the milk train in the early hours of the
morning. White Mason, the local officer, was a personal friend, and
hence MacDonald had been notified much more promptly than is usual at
Scotland Yard when provincials need their assistance. It is a very cold
scent upon which the Metropolitan expert is generally asked to run.
"DEAR INSPECTOR MACDONALD [said the letter which he read to us]:
"Official requisition for your services is in separate envelope. This is
for your private eye. Wire me what train in the morning you can get for
Birlstone, and I will meet it--or have it met if I am too occupied. This
case is a snorter. Don't waste a moment in getting started. If you can
bring Mr. Holmes, please do so; for he will find something after his own
heart. We would think the whole had been fixed up for theatrical
effect if there wasn't a dead man in the middle of it. My word! it IS a
snorter."
"Your friend seems to be no fool," remarked Holmes.
"No, sir, White Mason is a very live man, if I am any judge."
"Well, have you anything more?"
"Only that he will give us every detail when we meet."
"Then how did you get at Mr. Douglas and the fact that he had been
horribly murdered?"
"That was in the inclosed official report. It didn't say 'horrible':
that's not a recognized official term. It gave the name John Douglas. It
mentioned that his injuries had been in the head, from the discharge of
a shotgun. It also mentioned the hour of the alarm, which was close on
to midnight last night. It added that the case was undoubtedly one of
murder, but that no arrest had been made, and that the case was one
which presented some very perplexing and extraordinary features. That's
absolutely all we have at present, Mr. Holmes."
"Then, with your permission, we will leave it at that, Mr. Mac. The
temptation to form premature theories upon insufficient data is the bane
of our profession. I can see only two things for certain at present--a
great brain in London, and a dead man in Sussex. It's the chain between
that we are going to trace."
Chapter 3--The Tragedy of Birlstone
Now for a moment I will ask leave to remove my own insignificant
personality and to describe events which occurred before we arrived upon
the scene by the light of knowledge which came to us afterwards. Only in
this way can I
|
which
|
How many times does the word 'which' appear in the text?
| 3
|
<b>
</b> STRIKE (V.O. filtered)
<b> GHOST RIDER, THIS IS STRIKE... WE
</b><b> HAVE UNKNOWN CONTACT INBOUND,
</b><b> MUSTANG. YOUR VECTOR ZERO NINE ZERO
</b><b> FOR BOGEY.
</b><b>
</b> Almost immediately the RIO picks up a target and responds.
<b>
</b><b> GOOSE
</b><b> CONTACT 20 LEFT AT 25, 900 KNOTS
</b><b> CLOSURE.
</b><b>
</b><b>
</b><b> 8A. ANGLE - SECOND F-14 - 115 - COUGAR'S WINGMAN
</b><b>
</b> Come in on the cockpit with stenciled name and call signs: LT.
EVAN MITCHELL is the pilot, MAVERICK. In flight suit and oxygen
mask, we can only see his eyes. they are confident. In his
mid-twenties, he is lean, hard, athletic...the archetype fighter
pilot. His rear-seater is LTJG. WALTER MERLIN; WIZARD.
<b>
</b><b> MAVERICK
</b><b> I'LL I.D. HIM, YOU HOOK 'EM.
</b><b>
</b> Maverick peels off to right, to high cover position; 5 o'clock.
<b>
</b><b>
</b><b> 9. INT. GHOST RIDER 117 - COUGAR'S POV
</b><b>
</b> HEADS UP DISPLAY (HUD) glows dimly on the windscreen. Directly
in front of the stick, two CRT screens display data. The bottom
screen shows a radar sweep. Wedged between the instruments is a
snapshot of a pretty young woman with a 2 month-old baby.
<b>
</b><b>
</b><b> GOOSE
</b> Closing fast. MUSTANG, THIS IS
<b> GHOST RIDER ONE ONE SEVEN. CONTACT
</b><b> ONE BOGEY, 090 AT 15 MILES, 900
</b><b> KNOTS OF CLOSURE.
</b><b> COUGAR
</b> Look for the trailer.
<b>
</b><b> GOOSE
</b> I don't see anything. MAVERICK,
<b> YOU HAVE A TRAILER?
</b><b>
</b><b>
</b><b> 10. MAVERICK'S F-14
</b><b>
</b> Flying in combat spread, 1 mile abeam, higher.
<b>
</b><b> GOOSE
</b><b> NEGATIVE, COUGAR. LOOKS LIKE HE'S
</b><b> SINGLE.
</b><b>
</b><b>
</b><b> 11. INT. 117 - COUGAR'S COCKPIT
</b><b>
</b><b> COUGAR
</b><b> HANG BACK AND WATCH FOR HIM. HERE
</b><b> COMES...MIG ONE.
</b><b>
</b><b>
</b><b> 12. EXT. SKY
</b><b>
</b> Closing at 900 knots, The MiG is a speck, then a flash and a
ROAR, a knife-edge pass at 300 feet. It rockets past his left
wing tip and disappears. Cougar kicks rudder, whips the stick,
screams into a tight turning roll and dives after him. He slams
the throttle forward to ZONE 5 AFTERBURNER.
<b>
</b><b>
</b><b> 13. EXT. - MAVERICK'S F-14
</b><b>
</b> Maverick sees a SECOND MiG drop from above onto Cougar's tail.
<b>
</b><b>
</b><b> MAVERICK
</b><b> BOGEY ON YOUR SIX. I'M ON HIS.
</b><b>
</b> Maverick swings after him, lights it.
<b>
</b><b>
</b><b> 13A. ALL FOUR JETS SCREAM DOWN IN A POWER DIVE.
</b><b>
</b> They punch through cloud cover into the soup.
<b>
</b><b>
</b><b>
</b><b> 14. EXT. COUGAR'S F-14
</b><b>
</b> He is closing on the first MiG when a shocking BLIPBLIPBLIPBLIP
tone breaks into their headsets.
<b>
</b><b> GOOSE
</b> I've got a six strobe. I think
he's locked on us.
<b>
</b><b> COUGAR
</b> It's a MiG 21. They don't have
radar missiles!
<b>
</b><b> GOOSE
</b> Let's hope you're right!
<b>
</b><b> COUGAR
</b> What is he doing?
<b>
</b><b> GOOSE
</b> He's pissing me off!
<b>
</b> Cougar swings mad gyrations, cutting back and forth across the
front MiG's tailpipe, trying to break the lock-on. The TONE grows
more insistant.
<b>
</b><b> COUGAR
</b> Can't shake him.
<b>
</b><b> MAVERICK (V.O.)
</b><b> WHAT'S MIG ONE DOING?
</b><b>
</b><b> COUGAR
</b> Maintaining course. Straight for
Mustang.
<b>
</b><b> GOOSE
</b> Stay with him.
<b>
</b> The tone grows steady, BLIPBLIPBLIPBLIP.
<b>
</b><b> GOOSE
</b> (alarmed)
That's missile lock!
<b>
</b><b> COUGAR
</b> He better be kidding!
<b>
</b><b> GOOSE
</b> Lordy! Eyeball to Asshole.
Hope nobody burps!
<b>
</b><b>
</b><b>
</b><b> 14A. INT. MAVERICK'S F-14
</b><b>
</b><b> MAVERICK
</b> I'LL LOCK ON THEM, COUGAR. (to himself)
Gotcha covered, don't nobody move.
<b>
</b><b> COUGAR
</b><b> I'M UP HERE TOO, MAVERICK.
</b><b>
</b><b> MAVERICK
</b> ROGER, COUGAR. (to himself and his RIO)
Okay boys, pull out with your hands up
and nobody'll get hurt.
<b>
</b><b>
</b><b> 14B. INT. COUGAR'S F-14
</b><b>
</b> Up front, Cougar checks his gunsight...He gets I.R. lock...
<b>
</b><b> COUGAR
</b> We're locked on MiG ONE. Why
doesn't he disengage?
<b>
</b><b> GOOSE
</b> These guys are getting on my
nerves.
<b>
</b><b>
</b><b> 14C. FINALLY, MIG ONE TURNS AWAY.
</b><b>
</b><b> GOOSE
</b><b> GHOST RIDER TO MUSTANG. BANDITS
</b><b> TURNING AWAY.
</b><b>
</b> But Cougar presses forward, and MiG TWO stays on his tail.
<b>
</b><b>
</b><b> MAVERICK
</b><b> COUGAR, BREAK LEFT. TRY A HIGH G
</b><b> ROLL UNDERNEATH. BREAK OUT THE
</b><b> BOTTOM.
</b><b>
</b> Anger gives way to discipline. Cougar's Tomcat breaks left,
dives into dense cloud. MiG TWO still follows.
<b>
</b><b> MAVERICK
</b><b> HE'S STILL ON YOU, COUGAR.
</b><b>
</b><b>
</b><b> 15. EXT. COUGAR - IN THE CLOUDS
</b><b>
</b> Still hears the tone, BLIPBLIPBLIP...
<b>
</b><b> COUGAR
</b><b>
</b><b> I KNOW. I KNOW.
</b><b>
</b> He rolls over into wild evasive maneuvers, finally breaks lock.
<b>
</b><b>
</b><b> 16. INT. MIG
</b><b>
</b> Breaks out of cloud, looks around, startled. There is nothing,
no F-14. He scans the sky frantically, while rolling the
aircraft. ...Suddenly, he feels a presence. He looks straight up
and behind him. A few feet away, a TOMCAT slides into position
canopy to canopy, an incredible feat of flying. Maverick and
Wizard stare at him. Maverick slides even closer, canopies nearly
touching. The MiG pilot acknowledges them with a weak wave.
Maverick stares for a moment, then flips him the bird.
<b>
</b> The MiG pushes negative G, hard down and away. He heads for the
deck.
<b>
</b><b> WIZARD
</b> He's running for it.
<b>
</b><b>
</b><b> MAVERICK
</b> Ah, the thrill of victory and the
agony of defeat.
<b>
</b><b> WIZARD
</b> Speaking of feet, fuel's down to
4.0. We're gonna get them wet
unless we find a Sonoco station.
<b>
</b><b> MAVERICK
</b><b> COUGAR, THIS IS MAVERICK. I'M
</b><b> GETTING HUNGRY, LET'S HEAD FOR THE
</b><b> BARN. ...COUGAR, WHERE ARE YOU?
</b><b>
</b><b>
</b><b> 17. EXT. KITTY HAWK FLIGHT DECK - THE LSO
</b><b>
</b> Stands the on plunging deck, peering into the roaring night.
<b>
</b> CCA (Filtered)
<b> GHOST RIDER ONE-ONE-FIVE, THIS IS
</b><b> MUSTANG. WX THREE HUNDRED. ONE
</b><b> MILE VISIBILITY WITH HEAVY RAIN.
</b><b> FINAL INBOUND BEARING THREE-FOUR-
</b><b> ZERO. DECK IS MOVING.
</b><b>
</b><b>
</b><b> 18. INT. COCKPIT 117 - COUGAR
</b><b>
</b><b> COUGAR
</b><b>
</b> This is crazy. How the hell we
supposed to land on something we
can't even see!
<b>
</b><b> GOOSE
</b> Hey, if it was easy, everybody
would want to come up here and do
it..... Instead of just us.
<b>
</b><b> COUGAR
</b> (corrects him)
You.
<b>
</b> MUSTANG (V.O. filtered)
<b> MUSTANG TO GHOST RIDER 115...110
</b><b> SPIN, 42 LOCK. AT 5 MILES READ
</b><b> YOUR NEEDLES.
</b><b>
</b><b>
</b><b> 19. INT. COCKPIT 115 - MAVERICK
</b><b>
</b><b> MAVERICK
</b><b> NEEDLES READ DOWN AND LEFT.
</b><b>
</b> CCA (V.O. filtered)
<b> CONC
|
cougar
|
How many times does the word 'cougar' appear in the text?
| 3
|
But, mamma, I am above eighteen, and quite able to take care of myself,
and others too. You do not know half the wisdom and prudence I possess,
because I have never been tried.â
âOnly think,â said Mary, âwhat would you do in a house full of strangers,
without me or mamma to speak and act for youâwith a parcel of children,
besides yourself, to attend to; and no one to look to for advice? You
would not even know what clothes to put on.â
âYou think, because I always do as you bid me, I have no judgment of my
own: but only try meâthat is all I askâand you shall see what I can do.â
At that moment my father entered and the subject of our discussion was
explained to him.
âWhat, my little Agnes a governess!â cried he, and, in spite of his
dejection, he laughed at the idea.
âYes, papa, donât _you_ say anything against it: I should like it so
much; and I am sure I could manage delightfully.â
âBut, my darling, we could not spare you.â And a tear glistened in his
eye as he addedââNo, no! afflicted as we are, surely we are not brought
to that pass yet.â
âOh, no!â said my mother. âThere is no necessity whatever for such a
step; it is merely a whim of her own. So you must hold your tongue, you
naughty girl; for, though you are so ready to leave us, you know very
well we cannot part with _you_.â
I was silenced for that day, and for many succeeding ones; but still I
did not wholly relinquish my darling scheme. Mary got her drawing
materials, and steadily set to work. I got mine too; but while I drew, I
thought of other things. How delightful it would be to be a governess!
To go out into the world; to enter upon a new life; to act for myself; to
exercise my unused faculties; to try my unknown powers; to earn my own
maintenance, and something to comfort and help my father, mother, and
sister, besides exonerating them from the provision of my food and
clothing; to show papa what his little Agnes could do; to convince mamma
and Mary that I was not quite the helpless, thoughtless being they
supposed. And then, how charming to be entrusted with the care and
education of children! Whatever others said, I felt I was fully
competent to the task: the clear remembrance of my own thoughts in early
childhood would be a surer guide than the instructions of the most mature
adviser. I had but to turn from my little pupils to myself at their age,
and I should know, at once, how to win their confidence and affections:
how to waken the contrition of the erring; how to embolden the timid and
console the afflicted; how to make Virtue practicable, Instruction
desirable, and Religion lovely and comprehensible.
âDelightful task!
To teach the young idea how to shoot!
To train the tender plants, and watch their buds unfolding day by day!
Influenced by so many inducements, I determined still to persevere;
though the fear of displeasing my mother, or distressing my fatherâs
feelings, prevented me from resuming the subject for several days. At
length, again, I mentioned it to my mother in private; and, with some
difficulty, got her to promise to assist me with her endeavours. My
fatherâs reluctant consent was next obtained, and then, though Mary still
sighed her disapproval, my dear, kind mother began to look out for a
situation for me. She wrote to my fatherâs relations, and consulted the
newspaper advertisementsâher own relations she had long dropped all
communication with: a formal interchange of occasional letters was all
she had ever had since her marriage, and she would not at any time have
applied to them in a case of this nature. But so long and so entire had
been my parentsâ seclusion from the world, that many weeks elapsed before
a suitable situation could be procured. At last, to my great joy, it was
decreed that I should take charge of the young family of a certain Mrs.
Bloomfield; whom my kind, prim aunt Grey had known in her youth, and
asserted to be a very nice woman. Her husband was a retired tradesman,
who had realized a very comfortable fortune; but could not be prevailed
upon to give a greater salary than twenty-five pounds to the instructress
of his children. I, however, was glad to accept this, rather than refuse
the situationâwhich my parents were inclined to think the better plan.
But some weeks more were yet to be devoted to preparation. How long, how
tedious those weeks appeared to me! Yet they were happy ones in the
mainâfull of bright hopes and ardent expectations. With what peculiar
pleasure I assisted at the making of my new clothes, and, subsequently,
the packing of my trunks! But there was a feeling of bitterness mingling
with the latter occupation too; and when it was doneâwhen all was ready
for my departure on the morrow, and the last night at home approachedâa
sudden anguish seemed to swell my heart. My dear friends looked so sad,
and spoke so very kindly, that I could scarcely keep my eyes from
overflowing: but I still affected to be gay. I had taken my last ramble
with Mary on the moors, my last walk in the garden, and round the house;
I had fed, with her, our pet pigeons for the last timeâthe pretty
creatures that we had tamed to peck their food from our hands: I had
given a farewell stroke to all their silky backs as they crowded in my
lap. I had tenderly kissed my own peculiar favourites, the pair of
snow-white fantails; I had played my last tune on the old familiar piano,
and sung my last song to papa: not the last, I hoped, but the last for
what appeared to me a very long time. And, perhaps, when I did these
things again it would be with different feelings: circumstances might be
changed, and this house might never be my settled home again. My dear
little friend, the kitten, would certainly be changed: she was already
growing a fine cat; and when I returned, even for a hasty visit at
Christmas, would, most likely, have forgotten both her playmate and her
merry pranks. I had romped with her for the last time; and when I
stroked her soft bright fur, while she lay purring herself to sleep in my
lap, it was with a feeling of sadness I could not easily disguise. Then
at bed-time, when I retired with Mary to our quiet little chamber, where
already my drawers were cleared out and my share of the bookcase was
emptyâand where, hereafter, she would have to sleep alone, in dreary
solitude, as she expressed itâmy heart sank more than ever: I felt as if
I had been selfish and wrong to persist in leaving her; and when I knelt
once more beside our little bed, I prayed for a blessing on her and on my
parents more fervently than ever I had done before. To conceal my
emotion, I buried my face in my hands, and they were presently bathed in
tears. I perceived, on rising, that she had been crying too: but neither
of us spoke; and in silence we betook ourselves to our repose, creeping
more closely together from the consciousness that we were to part so
soon.
But the morning brought a renewal of hope and spirits. I was to depart
early; that the conveyance which took me (a gig, hired from Mr. Smith,
the draper, grocer, and tea-dealer of the village) might return the same
day. I rose, washed, dressed, swallowed a hasty breakfast, received the
fond embraces of my father, mother, and sister, kissed the catâto the
great scandal of Sally, the maidâshook hands with her, mounted the gig,
drew my veil over my face, and then, but not till then, burst into a
flood of tears. The gig rolled on; I looked back; my dear mother and
sister were still standing at the door, looking after me, and waving
their adieux. I returned their salute, and prayed God to bless them from
my heart: we descended the hill, and I could see them no more.
âItâs a coldish morninâ for you, Miss Agnes,â observed Smith; âand a
darksome âun too; but weâs happen get to yon spot afore there come much
rain to signify.â
âYes, I hope so,â replied I, as calmly as I could.
âItâs comed a good sup last night too.â
âYes.â
âBut this cold wind will happen keep it off.â
âPerhaps it will.â
Here ended our colloquy. We crossed the valley, and began to ascend the
opposite hill. As we were toiling up, I looked back again; there was the
village spire, and the old grey parsonage beyond it, basking in a
slanting beam of sunshineâit was but a sickly ray, but the village and
surrounding hills were all in sombre shade, and I hailed the wandering
beam as a propitious omen to my home. With clasped hands I fervently
implored a blessing on its inhabitants, and hastily turned away; for I
saw the sunshine was departing; and I carefully avoided another glance,
lest I should see it in gloomy shadow, like the rest of the landscape.
CHAPTER IIâFIRST LESSONS IN THE ART OF INSTRUCTION
As we drove along, my spirits revived again, and I turned, with pleasure,
to the contemplation of the new life upon which I was entering. But
though it was not far past the middle of September, the heavy clouds and
strong north-easterly wind combined to render the day extremely cold and
dreary; and the journey seemed a very long one, for, as Smith observed,
the roads were âvery heavyâ; and certainly, his horse was very heavy too:
it crawled up the hills, and crept down them, and only condescended to
shake its sides in a trot where the road was at a dead level or a very
gentle slope, which was rarely the case in those rugged regions; so that
it was nearly one oâclock before we reached the place of our destination.
Yet, after all, when we entered the lofty iron gateway, when we drove
softly up the smooth, well-rolled carriage-road, with the green lawn on
each side, studded with young trees, and approached the new but stately
mansion of Wellwood, rising above its mushroom poplar-groves, my heart
failed me, and I wished it were a mile or two farther off. For the first
time in my life I must stand alone: there was no retreating now. I must
enter that house, and introduce myself among its strange inhabitants.
But how was it to be done? True, I was near nineteen; but, thanks to my
retired life and the protecting care of my mother and sister, I well knew
that many a girl of fifteen, or under, was gifted with a more womanly
address, and greater ease and self-possession, than I was. Yet, if Mrs.
Bloomfield were a kind, motherly woman, I might do very well, after all;
and the children, of course, I should soon be at ease with themâand Mr.
Bloomfield, I hoped, I should have but little to do with.
âBe calm, be calm, whatever happens,â I said within myself; and truly I
kept this resolution so well, and was so fully occupied in steadying my
nerves and stifling the rebellious flutter of my heart, that when I was
admitted into the hall and ushered into the presence of Mrs. Bloomfield,
I almost forgot to answer her polite salutation; and it afterwards struck
me, that the little I did say was spoken in the tone of one half-dead or
half-asleep. The lady, too, was somewhat chilly in her manner, as I
discovered when I had time to reflect. She was a tall, spare, stately
woman, with thick black hair, cold grey eyes, and extremely sallow
complexion.
With due politeness, however, she showed me my bedroom, and left me there
to take a little refreshment. I was somewhat dismayed at my appearance
on looking in the glass: the cold wind had swelled and reddened my hands,
uncurled and entangled my hair, and dyed my face of a pale purple; add to
this my collar was horridly crumpled, my frock splashed with mud, my feet
clad in stout new boots, and as the trunks were not brought up, there was
no remedy; so having smoothed my hair as well as I could, and repeatedly
twitched my obdurate collar, I proceeded to clomp down the two flights of
stairs, philosophizing as I went; and with some difficulty found my way
into the room where Mrs. Bloomfield awaited me.
She led me into the dining-room, where the family luncheon had been laid
out. Some beefsteaks and half-cold potatoes were set before me; and
while I dined upon these, she sat opposite, watching me (as I thought)
and endeavouring to sustain something like a conversationâconsisting
chiefly of a succession of commonplace remarks, expressed with frigid
formality: but this might be more my
|
little
|
How many times does the word 'little' appear in the text?
| 2
|
pounds a year was
offered me in a distant neighbourhood, where I could still enjoy my
principles without molestation. With this proposal I joyfully closed,
having determined to encrease my salary by managing a little farm.
Having taken this resolution, my next care was to get together the
wrecks of my fortune; and all debts collected and paid, out of fourteen
thousand pounds we had but four hundred remaining. My chief attention
therefore was now to bring down the pride of my family to their
circumstances; for I well knew that aspiring beggary is wretchedness
itself. 'You cannot be ignorant, my children,' cried I, 'that no
prudence of ours could have prevented our late misfortune; but prudence
may do much in disappointing its effects. We are now poor, my fondlings,
and wisdom bids us conform to our humble situation. Let us then, without
repining, give up those splendours with which numbers are wretched, and
seek in humbler circumstances that peace with which all may be happy.
The poor live pleasantly without our help, why then should not we learn
to live without theirs. No, my children, let us from this moment give up
all pretensions to gentility; we have still enough left for happiness
if we are wise, and let us draw upon content for the deficiencies of
fortune.' As my eldest son was bred a scholar, I determined to send him
to town, where his abilities might contribute to our support and his
own. The separation of friends and families is, perhaps, one of the most
distressful circumstances attendant on penury. The day soon arrived on
which we were to disperse for the first time. My son, after taking leave
of his mother and the rest, who mingled their tears with their kisses,
came to ask a blessing from me. This I gave him from my heart, and
which, added to five guineas, was all the patrimony I had now to bestow.
'You are going, my boy,' cried I, 'to London on foot, in the manner
Hooker, your great ancestor, travelled there before you. Take from me
the same horse that was given him by the good bishop Jewel, this staff,
and take this book too, it will be your comfort on the way: these two
lines in it are worth a million, I have been young, and now am old; yet
never saw I the righteous man forsaken, or his seed begging their bread.
Let this be your consolation as you travel on. Go, my boy, whatever be
thy fortune let me see thee once a year; still keep a good heart, and
farewell.' As he was possest of integrity and honour, I was under no
apprehensions from throwing him naked into the amphitheatre of life; for
I knew he would act a good part whether vanquished or victorious. His
departure only prepared the way for our own, which arrived a few days
afterwards. The leaving a neighbourhood in which we had enjoyed so many
hours of tranquility, was not without a tear, which scarce fortitude
itself could suppress. Besides, a journey of seventy miles to a family
that had hitherto never been above ten from home, filled us with
apprehension, and the cries of the poor, who followed us for some miles,
contributed to encrease it. The first day's journey brought us in safety
within thirty miles of our future retreat, and we put up for the night
at an obscure inn in a village by the way. When we were shewn a room, I
desired the landlord, in my usual way, to let us have his company,
with which he complied, as what he drank would encrease the bill next
morning. He knew, however, the whole neighbourhood to which I was
removing, particularly 'Squire Thornhill, who was to be my landlord, and
who lived within a few miles of the place. This gentleman he described
as one who desired to know little more of the world than its pleasures,
being particularly remarkable for his attachment to the fair sex. He
observed that no virtue was able to resist his arts and assiduity, and
that scarce a farmer's daughter within ten miles round but what had
found him successful and faithless. Though this account gave me some
pain, it had a very different effect upon my daughters, whose features
seemed to brighten with the expectation of an approaching triumph, nor
was my wife less pleased and confident of their allurements and virtue.
While our thoughts were thus employed, the hostess entered the room to
inform her husband, that the strange gentleman, who had been two days in
the house, wanted money, and could not satisfy them for his reckoning.
'Want money!' replied the host, 'that must be impossible; for it was no
later than yesterday he paid three guineas to our beadle to spare an
old broken soldier that was to be whipped through the town for
dog-stealing.' The hostess, however, still persisting in her first
assertion, he was preparing to leave the room, swearing that he would be
satisfied one way or another, when I begged the landlord would introduce
me to a stranger of so much charity as he described. With this he
complied, shewing in a gentleman who seemed to be about thirty, drest in
cloaths that once were laced. His person was well formed, and his face
marked with the lines of thinking. He had something short and dry in his
address, and seemed not to understand ceremony, or to despise it. Upon
the landlord's leaving the room, I could not avoid expressing my concern
to the stranger at seeing a gentleman in such circumstances, and offered
him my purse to satisfy the present demand. 'I take it with all my
heart, Sir,' replied he, 'and am glad that a late oversight in giving
what money I had about me, has shewn me that there are still some men
like you. I must, however, previously entreat being informed of the
name and residence of my benefactor, in order to repay him as soon as
possible.' In this I satisfied him fully, not only mentioning my name
and late misfortunes, but the place to which I was going to remove.
'This,' cried he, 'happens still more luckily than I hoped for, as I
am going the same way myself, having been detained here two days by the
floods, which, I hope, by to-morrow will be found passable.' I testified
the pleasure I should have in his company, and my wife and daughters
joining in entreaty, he was prevailed upon to stay supper. The
stranger's conversation, which was at once pleasing and instructive,
induced me to wish for a continuance of it; but it was now high time to
retire and take refreshment against the fatigues of the following day.
The next morning we all set forward together: my family on horseback,
while Mr Burchell, our new companion, walked along the foot-path by
the road-side, observing, with a smile, that as we were ill mounted, he
would be too generous to attempt leaving us behind. As the floods
were not yet subsided, we were obliged to hire a guide, who trotted
on before, Mr Burchell and I bringing up the rear. We lightened the
fatigues of the road with philosophical disputes, which he seemed to
understand perfectly. But what surprised me most was, that though he was
a money-borrower, he defended his opinions with as much obstinacy as
if he had been my patron. He now and then also informed me to whom the
different seats belonged that lay in our view as we travelled the road.
'That,' cried he, pointing to a very magnificent house which stood at
some distance, 'belongs to Mr Thornhill, a young gentleman who enjoys a
large fortune, though entirely dependent on the will of his uncle,
Sir William Thornhill, a gentleman, who content with a little himself,
permits his nephew to enjoy the rest, and chiefly resides in town.'
'What!' cried I, 'is my young landlord then the nephew of a man whose
virtues, generosity, and singularities are so universally known? I have
heard Sir William Thornhill represented as one of the most generous,
yet whimsical, men in the kingdom; a man of consumate
benevolence'--'Something, perhaps, too much so,' replied Mr Burchell,
'at least he carried benevolence to an excess when young; for his
passions were then strong, and as they all were upon the side of virtue,
they led it up to a romantic extreme. He early began to aim at the
qualifications of the soldier and scholar; was soon distinguished in
the army and had some reputation among men of learning. Adulation
ever follows the ambitious; for such alone receive most pleasure from
flattery. He was surrounded with crowds, who shewed him only one side of
their character; so that he began to lose a regard for private interest
in universal sympathy. He loved all mankind; for fortune prevented him
from knowing that there were rascals. Physicians tell us of a disorder
in which the whole body is so exquisitely sensible, that the slightest
touch gives pain: what some have thus suffered in their persons, this
gentleman felt in his mind. The slightest distress, whether real or
fictitious, touched him to the quick, and his soul laboured under a
sickly sensibility of the miseries of others. Thus disposed to relieve,
it will be easily conjectured, he found numbers disposed to solicit: his
profusions began to impair his fortune, but not his good-nature; that,
indeed, was seen to encrease as the other seemed to decay: he grew
improvident as he grew poor; and though he talked like a man of sense,
his actions were those of a fool. Still, however, being surrounded with
importunity, and no longer able to satisfy every request that was made
him, instead of money he gave promises. They were all he had to bestow,
and he had not resolution enough to give any man pain by a denial.
By this he drew round him crowds of dependants, whom he was sure to
disappoint; yet wished to relieve. These hung upon him for a time, and
left him with merited reproaches and contempt. But in proportion as he
became contemptable to others, he became despicable to himself. His mind
had leaned upon their adulation, and that support taken away, he could
find no pleasure in the applause of his heart, which he had never
learnt to reverence. The world now began to wear a different aspect;
the flattery of his friends began to dwindle into simple approbation.
Approbation soon took the more friendly form of advice, and advice when
rejected produced their reproaches. He now, therefore found that such
friends as benefits had gathered round him, were little estimable: he
now found that a man's own heart must be ever given to gain that of
another. I now found, that--that--I forget what I was going to observe:
in short, sir, he resolved to respect himself, and laid down a plan of
restoring his falling fortune. For this purpose, in his own whimsical
manner he travelled through Europe on foot, and now, though he has
scarce attained the age of thirty, his circumstances are more affluent
than ever. At present, his bounties are more rational and moderate than
before; but still he preserves the character of an humourist, and finds
most pleasure in eccentric virtues.'
My attention was so much taken up by Mr Burchell's account, that I
scarce looked forward as we went along, til we were alarmed by the cries
of my family, when turning, I perceived my youngest daughter in the
midst of a rapid stream, thrown from her horse, and struggling with the
torrent. She had sunk twice, nor was it in my power to disengage myself
in time to bring her relief. My sensations were even too violent to
permit my attempting her rescue: she must have certainly perished had
not my companion, perceiving her danger, instantly plunged in to her
relief, and with some difficulty, brought her in safety to the opposite
shore. By taking the current a little farther up, the rest of the
family got safely over; where we had an opportunity of joining our
acknowledgments to her's. Her gratitude may be more readily imagined
than described: she thanked her deliverer more with looks than words,
and continued to lean upon his arm, as if still willing to receive
assistance. My wife also hoped one day to have the pleasure of returning
his kindness at her own house. Thus, after we were refreshed at the next
inn, and had dined together, as Mr Burchell was going to a different
part of the country, he took leave; and we pursued our journey. My wife
observing as we went, that she liked him extremely, and protesting, that
if he had birth and fortune to entitle him to match into such a family
as our's, she knew no man she would sooner fix upon. I could not but
smile to hear her talk in this lofty strain: but I was never much
displeased with those harmless delusions that tend to make us more
happy.
CHAPTER 4
A proof that even the humblest fortune may grant happiness,
which depends not on circumstance, but constitution
The place of our retreat was in a little neighbourhood, consisting
of farmers, who tilled their own grounds, and were equal strangers to
opulence and poverty. As they had almost all the conveniencies of life
within themselves, they seldom visited towns or cities in search of
superfluity. Remote from the polite, they still retained the primaeval
simplicity of manners, and frugal by habit, they scarce knew that
temperance was a virtue. They wrought with cheerfulness on days of
labour; but observed festivals as intervals of idleness and pleasure.
They kept up the Christmas carol, sent true love-knots on Valentine
morning, eat pancakes on Shrove-tide, shewed their wit on the first of
April, and religiously cracked nuts on Michaelmas eve. Being apprized of
our approach, the whole neighbourhood came out to meet their minister,
drest in their finest cloaths, and preceded by a pipe and tabor: A feast
also was provided for our reception, at which we sat cheerfully down;
and what the conversation wanted in wit, was made up in laughter.
Our little habitation was situated at the foot of a sloping hill,
sheltered with a beautiful underwood behind, and a pratling river
before; on one side a meadow, on the other a green. My farm consisted of
about twenty acres of excellent land, having given an hundred pound
for my predecessor's good-will. Nothing could exceed the neatness of my
little enclosures: the elms and hedge rows appearing with inexpressible
beauty. My house consisted of but one story, and was covered with
thatch, which gave it an air of great snugness; the walls on the inside
were nicely white-washed, and my daughters undertook to adorn them with
pictures of their own designing. Though the same room served us for
parlour and kitchen, that only made it the warmer. Besides, as it was
kept with the utmost neatness, the dishes, plates, and coppers, being
well scoured, and all disposed in bright rows on the shelves,
|
have
|
How many times does the word 'have' appear in the text?
| 2
|
He motions to a high-tech ORB, showing FOOTAGE of VDI's
accomplishments: a safe and clean nuclear facility, the first
private Space Station.
All images have VICTOR front and center, glad-handling George
Bush, Tony Blair, shady International Leaders. The last
image is Victor holding the AMERICA'S CUP.
<b> BEN (CONT'D)
</b> Jesus. That too?
They reach three stern RECEPTIONISTS.
<b> REED
</b> Reed Richards and Ben Grimm to see --
A receptionist cuts him off, handing them each a pass.
<b> FEMALE RECEPTIONIST
</b> Executive elevator, top floor.
<b> BEN
</b> What's the price for a smile round here?
They head for the elevator. Reed carries a small, black box.
As they enter the elevator, steel doors shut and we CUT TO --
<b> INT. VON DOOM INDUSTRIES TOWER - OFFICE - DAY
</b>
A large, dark office. Ben in the corner. He yawns,
watches...
BRIGHT HOLOGRAMS: Stars. Planets. They hover in the air,
making the room feel like a majestic portal into outer space.
<b> REED (O.S.)
</b> My research suggests that exposure to
a high-energy cosmic storm born on
solar winds might have triggered the
evolution of early planetary life.
REED stands among the holograms, speaking to a MYSTERIOUS
FIGURE in shadow behind a desk. An ominous, PULSATING RED
CLOUD covers the stars. It washes over a hologram of EARTH.
<b> REED (CONT'D)
</b> In six weeks another cloud with the
same elemental profile will pass
Earth's orbit. A study in space could
advance our knowledge about the
structure of the human genome, and
help cure countless diseases, extend
human life --
The SHADOW clears his throat. Reed speeds up, emotional.
<b> REED (CONT'D)
</b> Give kids the chance to be stronger,
healthier, less prone to --
<b> SHADOWED FIGURE
</b> Turn it off. Please.
The figure's DEEP VOICE pierces the darkness.
<b> REED
</b> But I haven't fully explained my --
<b> SHADOWED FIGURE
</b> Yes you have... Imagination.
Creativity. Passion. Those were
always your trademarks.
Lights brighten, revealing the face behind the voice: VICTOR
VON DOOM. 35, handsome, commanding. He looks almost...
airbrushed. He drops a WIRED magazine to the desk. REED is
on the cover over the words: RICHARDS BANKRUPT, GRANT
<b> CUTBACKS.
</b>
<b> VICTOR
</b> But dreams don't pay the bills, do
they?
(a condescending smile)
Same old Reed, the hopeless optimist.
Still reaching for the stars, with the
world on your back.
<b> REED
</b> You remember in school we talked about
working together. That's what I was
about to explain...
Reed presses the remote. Another hologram appears: A SHUTTLE
slowly approaching AN ORBITING SPACE STATION. Both bear the
VON DOOM INDUSTRIES logo. Victor smiles, more intrigued.
<b> VICTOR
</b> So it's not my money you want. It's
my toys... Tell me: if NASA doesn't
trust you, why should I?
Victor is a step ahead. Reed pauses, thrown for a beat. Ben
wakes up, suspicious. Victor notices. He notices
everything.
<b> VICTOR (CONT'D)
</b> That's my job. To stay a step ahead.
To know what other men don't.
Ben gets close to Reed, turning toward the door.
<b> BEN
</b> I can't take this.
<b> REED
</b> (low, quiet)
Ben. This is business. Just work.
<b>
</b> A beat. Victor cracks a smile, enjoying the tension. And...
<b> SUE (O.S.)
</b> He's right, Ben.
They turn to see...SUE STORM (demure, stunning) standing in a
corner...possibly for the whole presentation. A little cold:
<b> SUE (CONT'D)
</b> It's just business.
<b> VICTOR
</b> I think you both know my Director of
Genetic Research, Susan Storm.
<b> BEN
</b> Heya Susie.
|
victor
|
How many times does the word 'victor' appear in the text?
| 3
|
<b> THE RED OCTOBER
</b> a huge submarine, trading a gigantic rudder a hundred yards aft
her sail. A patrol BOAT and ICEBREAKER escort her to sea. On
SPEAKERS in the SAIL:
<b> HELMSMAN (VO)
</b> Captain, political off=er Putin requests
permission to come to the bridge.
<b> RAMIUS
</b>
<b> (GLANCING AT
</b>
<b> BORODIN)
</b> Granted.
<b> BORODIN
</b> (under his breath)
Think of it, Comrade.. .son of only a
humble mM worker...
<b> RAMIUS
</b> Quiet as grass, Vastly. Quiet as grass.
(louder, turning)
Good morning, Comrade political off=er
<b> IVAN YURIEVICH PUTIN
</b> block-faced, forties, pink-necked, political officer assigned to Red
October, clambers through the hatch into the air, wheezing:
<b> PUTIN
</b> Ah,, Captain, every time I climb that
ladder, I realize what an over-fed
ox rve become.
Put in smiles. Ramius smiles back, but his eyes are cold. Suddenly,
there's not a lot of Lave on the bridge:
<b> PUTIN (CONT'D)
</b>
<b> (EXPANSIVELY)
</b> Such a glorious day. So exciting to
h t ally put the land behind us and
be on our way.
<b> (TO RAMIUS)
</b> Bourgeois of me, I know, but my
enthusiasm at being chosen polidcica].
officer on this historic mission Its
me with pride.
<b> (BEAT)
</b> Me, a man of such humble birth, whose
father was only a mill. worker. Think
of it, comrades, a mill worker.
Borodin CHUCKLES. Putin stares at him. Borodin covers with a
COUGH. Putin keeps starring. Flushed, Borodin looks away. Putin
turns porcine eyes on Ramius:
<b> PUTIN (CONT'D)
</b>
<b> (TURNING)
</b> Your father was a Lithuanian, was
he not, Captain?
<b> RAMIUS
</b> You know he was.
<b> PU TIN
</b> I knew a Lithuanian once...
His words hang like rotten fru
<b> PUTIN (CONT'D)
</b> ...though I'm sure your father was
nothing like him. Pefmisrdon to go
below?
Smirking, Putin leaves. Ramius watches him go. SPEAKERS in the
<b> SAI :
</b>
<b> HELMSMAN (VO)
</b> Conn to bridge, sonar reports we are
crossing sixty fathoms.
<b> BORODIN
</b> it's time, Captain.
St M dealing with Putin's exit, Ramius turns away from the hatch,
contemplating the shore. After a beat, softly:.
<b> RAMIUS
</b> We go.
<b> BORO DIN
</b> (into the headset)
Clear the bridge! Prepare to dive.
Captain coming below. Of cer of
the deck, make signal to escort:.
Ramius and. Borodin disappear. Red October prepares to dive. All
that remains is icy .sea and the Sand. Then, faintly at first, from
the frozen coast:
<b> A RED ARMY CHORUS
</b> rises into the swirling sky. It seems to come from everywhere, the
rocks, the trees, the sea itself. Red October dives. The screen
fades to black and a giant title appears:
<b> KRASNY OKTOBR
</b>
<b> THE HUNT FOR RED OCTOBER
</b> CHORUS BOOMS. Male VOICES ring in thundering tribute to the
heart and soul of mother Russia. Credits keep rolling. Then, from
<b> THE DARKNESS
</b>
<b> A LITHOGRAPH
</b> of John Paul Jones fighting the Serapis appears. It's on the wall. in
a cluttered study. Books crowd every bit of space. Photos, models
and nautical memorabilia, everywhere.
<b> THROUGH A WINDOW
</b> an English suburb in drizzling rain. Red Army CHORUS SINGS
SOFTLY. In a driveway, a late model ROVER waits, lights on,
engine running. At a messy desk
<b> JACK RYAN
</b> early-thirties, good-Looking, disheveled and harried, stuffs papers
into a brief case. Slamming it shut, he reaches for his raincoat.
<b> BEHIND HIM
</b>
<b> A LITTLE GIRL
</b> appears in the doorway. Her name is Sally. She's Ryan's
daughter. Wearing a nightgown with butterflies on it, she's
carrying a well-worn Koala bear:
<b> SALLY
</b> Daddy?
<b> RYAN
</b>
<b> (TURNING)
</b> Hey.., What are you doing up?
You're suppose to be sleeping.
<b> SALLY
</b> I can't.
Kneeing beside: her, Ryan talks in a steady unpatronizing way. He
loves her to death:
<b> RYAN
</b> What's the matter?
<b> SALLY
</b> Where are you going?
<b> RYAN
</b> I have to go on a business trip and you
have to go to sleep or when you grow up
you'll only be two inches tall.
<b> SALLY
</b> Stanley keeps waking
|
putin
|
How many times does the word 'putin' appear in the text?
| 3
|
a view to future
favours in the eating line.
'Any news of the Commodore?' asked Tom.
'He is on his way home, and Dan hopes to come soon. I long to see my
boys together, and have begged the wanderers to come to Thanksgiving, if
not before,' answered Mrs Jo, beaming at the thought.
'They'll come, every man of them, if they can. Even Jack will risk
losing a dollar for the sake of one of our jolly old dinners,' laughed
Tom.
'There's the turkey fattening for the feast. I never chase him now, but
feed him well; and he's "swellin' wisibly", bless his drumsticks!' said
Ted, pointing out the doomed fowl proudly parading in a neighbouring
field.
'If Nat goes the last of the month we shall want a farewell frolic for
him. I suppose the dear old Chirper will come home a second Ole Bull,'
said Nan to her friend.
A pretty colour came into Daisy's cheek, and the folds of muslin on her
breast rose and fell with a quick breath; but she answered placidly:
'Uncle Laurie says he has real talent, and after the training he will
get abroad he can command a good living here, though he may never be
famous.'
'Young people seldom turn out as one predicts, so it is of little use
to expect anything,' said Mrs Meg with a sigh. 'If our children are good
and useful men and women, we should be satisfied; yet it's very natural
to wish them to be brilliant and successful.'
'They are like my chickens, mighty uncertain. Now, that fine-looking
cockerel of mine is the stupidest one of the lot, and the ugly,
long-legged chap is the king of the yard, he's so smart; crows loud
enough to wake the Seven Sleepers; but the handsome one croaks, and is
no end of a coward. I get snubbed; but you wait till I grow up, and
then see'; and Ted looked so like his own long-legged pet that everyone
laughed at his modest prediction.
'I want to see Dan settled somewhere. "A rolling stone gathers no moss",
and at twenty-five he is still roaming about the world without a tie to
hold him, except this'; and Mrs Meg nodded towards her sister.
'Dan will find his place at last, and experience is his best teacher.
He is rough still, but each time he comes home I see a change for the
better, and never lose my faith in him. He may never do anything great,
or get rich; but if the wild boy makes an honest man, I'm satisfied,'
said Mrs Jo, who always defended the black sheep of her flock.
'That's right, mother, stand by Dan! He's worth a dozen Jacks and Neds
bragging about money and trying to be swells. You see if he doesn't do
something to be proud of and take the wind out of their sails,'
added Ted, whose love for his 'Danny' was now strengthened by a boy's
admiration for the bold, adventurous man.
'Hope so, I'm sure. He's just the fellow to do rash things and come
to glory--climbing the Matterhorn, taking a "header" into Niagara, or
finding a big nugget. That's his way of sowing wild oats, and perhaps
it's better than ours,' said Tom thoughtfully; for he had gained a good
deal of experience in that sort of agriculture since he became a medical
student.
'Much better!' said Mrs Jo emphatically. 'I'd rather send my boys off
to see the world in that way than leave them alone in a city full of
temptations, with nothing to do but waste time, money, and health, as
so many are left. Dan has to work his way, and that teaches him courage,
patience, and self-reliance. I don't worry about him as much as I do
about George and Dolly at college, no more fit than two babies to take
care of themselves.'
'How about John? He's knocking round town as a newspaper man, reporting
all sorts of things, from sermons to prize-fights,' asked Tom, who
thought that sort of life would be much more to his own taste than
medical lectures and hospital wards.
'Demi has three safeguards--good principles, refined tastes, and a wise
mother. He won't come to harm, and these experiences will be useful to
him when he begins to write, as I'm sure he will in time,' began Mrs
Jo in her prophetic tone; for she was anxious to have some of her geese
turn out swans.
'Speak of Jenkins, and you'll hear the rustling of his paper,' cried
Tom, as a fresh-faced, brown-eyed young man came up the avenue, waving a
newspaper over his head.
'Here's your Evening Tattler! Latest Edition! Awful murder! Bank clerk
absconded! Powder-mill explosion, and great strike of the Latin School
boys!' roared Ted, going to meet his cousin with the graceful gait of a
young giraffe.
'The Commodore is in, and will cut his cable and run before the wind
as soon as he can get off,' called Demi, with 'a nice derangement of
nautical epitaphs', as he came up smiling over his good news.
Everyone talked together for a moment, and the paper passed from hand to
hand that each eye might rest on the pleasant fact that the Brenda, from
Hamburg, was safe in port.
'He'll come lurching out by tomorrow with his usual collection of marine
monsters and lively yarns. I saw him, jolly and tarry and brown as a
coffee-berry. Had a good run, and hopes to be second mate, as the other
chap is laid up with a broken leg,' added Demi.
'Wish I had the setting of it,' said Nan to herself, with a professional
twist of her hand.
'How's Franz?' asked Mrs Jo.
'He's going to be married! There's news for you. The first of the
flock, Aunty, so say good-bye to him. Her name is Ludmilla Heldegard
Blumenthal; good family, well-off, pretty, and of course an angel. The
dear old boy wants Uncle's consent, and then he will settle down to be a
happy and an honest burgher. Long life to him!'
'I'm glad to hear it. I do so like to settle my boys with a good wife
and a nice little home. Now, if all is right, I shall feel as if Franz
was off my mind,' said Mrs Jo, folding her hands contentedly; for she
often felt like a distracted hen with a large brood of mixed chickens
and ducks upon her hands.
'So do I,' sighed Tom, with a sly glance at Nan. 'That's what a fellow
needs to keep him steady; and it's the duty of nice girls to marry as
soon as possible, isn't it, Demi?'
'If there are enough nice fellows to go round. The female population
exceeds the male, you know, especially in New England; which accounts
for the high state of culture we are in, perhaps,' answered John, who
was leaning over his mother's chair, telling his day's experiences in a
whisper.
'It is a merciful provision, my dears; for it takes three or four women
to get each man into, through, and out of the world. You are costly
creatures, boys; and it is well that mothers, sisters, wives, and
daughters love their duty and do it so well, or you would perish off the
face of the earth,' said Mrs Jo solemnly, as she took up a basket filled
with dilapidated hose; for the good Professor was still hard on his
socks, and his sons resembled him in that respect.
'Such being the case, there is plenty for the "superfluous women" to do,
in taking care of these helpless men and their families. I see that more
clearly every day, and am very glad and grateful that my profession will
make me a useful, happy, and independent spinster.'
Nan's emphasis on the last word caused Tom to groan, and the rest to
laugh.
'I take great pride and solid satisfaction in you, Nan, and hope to
see you very successful; for we do need just such helpful women in the
world. I sometimes feel as if I've missed my vocation and ought to
have remained single; but my duty seemed to point this way, and I don't
regret it,' said Mrs Jo, folding a large and very ragged blue sock to
her bosom.
'Neither do I. What should I ever have done without my dearest Mum?'
added Ted, with a filial hug which caused both to disappear behind the
newspaper in which he had been mercifully absorbed for a few minutes.
'My darling boy, if you would wash your hands semi-occasionally, fond
caresses would be less disastrous to my collar. Never mind, my precious
touslehead, better grass stains and dirt than no cuddlings at all'; and
Mrs Jo emerged from that brief eclipse looking much refreshed, though
her back hair was caught in Ted's buttons and her collar under one ear.
Here Josie, who had been studying her part at the other end of the
piazza, suddenly burst forth with a smothered shriek, and gave Juliet's
speech in the tomb so effectively that the boys applauded, Daisy
shivered, and Nan murmured: 'Too much cerebral excitement for one of her
age.'
'I'm afraid you'll have to make up your mind to it, Meg. That child is
a born actress. We never did anything so well, not even the Witch's
Curse,' said Mrs Jo, casting a bouquet of many-coloured socks at the
feet of her flushed and panting niece, when she fell gracefully upon the
door-mat.
'It is a sort of judgement upon me for my passion for the stage when a
girl. Now I know how dear Marmee felt when I begged to be an actress. I
never can consent, and yet I may be obliged to give up my wishes, hopes,
and plans again.'
There was an accent of reproach in his mother's voice, which made Demi
pick up his sister with a gentle shake, and the stern command to 'drop
that nonsense in public'.
'Drop me, Minion, or I'll give you the Maniac Bride, with my best
Ha-ha!' cried Josie, glaring at him like an offended kitten. Being set
on her feet, she made a splendid courtesy, and dramatically proclaiming,
'Mrs Woffington's carriage waits,' swept down the steps and round the
corner, trailing Daisy's scarlet shawl majestically behind her.
'Isn't she great fun? I couldn't stop in this dull place if I hadn't
that child to make it lively for me. If ever she turns prim, I'm off; so
mind how you nip her in the bud,' said Teddy, frowning at Demi, who was
now writing out shorthand notes on the steps.
'You two are a team, and it takes a strong hand to drive you, but I
rather like it. Josie ought to have been my child, and Rob yours, Meg.
Then your house would have been all peace and mine all Bedlam. Now I
must go and tell Laurie the news. Come with me, Meg, a little stroll
will do us good'; and sticking Ted's straw hat on her head, Mrs Jo
walked off with her sister, leaving Daisy to attend to the muffins, Ted
to appease Josie, and Tom and Nan to give their respective patients a
very bad quarter of an hour.
Chapter 2. PARNASSUS
It was well named; and the Muses seemed to be at home that day, for as
the newcomers went up the slope appropriate sights and sounds greeted
them. Passing an open window, they looked in upon a library presided
over by Clio, Calliope, and Urania; Melpomene and Thalia were disporting
themselves in the hall, where some young people were dancing and
rehearsing a play; Erato was walking in the garden with her lover, and
in the music-room Phoebus himself was drilling a tuneful choir.
A mature Apollo was our old friend Laurie, but comely and genial as
ever; for time had ripened the freakish boy into a noble man. Care and
sorrow, as well as ease and happiness, had done much for him; and the
responsibility of carrying out his grandfather's wishes had been a
duty most faithfully performed. Prosperity suits some people, and they
blossom best in a glow of sunshine; others need the shade, and are the
sweeter for a touch of frost. Laurie was one of the former sort, and
Amy was another; so life had been a kind of poem to them since they
married--not only harmonious and happy, but earnest, useful, and rich in
the beautiful benevolence which can do so much when wealth and wisdom go
hand in hand with charity. Their house was full of unostentatious beauty
and comfort, and here the art-loving host and hostess attracted and
entertained artists of all kinds. Laurie had music enough now, and was a
generous patron to the class he most liked to help. Amy had her proteges
among ambitious young painters and sculptors, and found her own art
double dear as her daughter grew old enough to share its labours and
delights with her; for she was one of those who prove that women can be
faithful wives and mothers without sacrificing the special gift bestowed
upon them for their own development and the good of others.
Her sisters knew where to find her, and Jo went at once to the studio,
where mother and daughter worked together. Bess was busy with the bust
of a little child, while her mother added the last touches to a fine
head of her husband. Time seemed to have stood still with Amy, for
happiness had kept her young and prosperity given her the culture she
needed. A stately, graceful woman, who showed how elegant simplicity
could be made by the taste with which she chose her dress and the grace
with which she wore it. As someone said: 'I never know what Mrs Laurence
has on, but I always receive the impression that she is the best-dressed
lady in the room.'
It was evident that she adored her daughter, and well she might; for
the beauty she had longed for seemed, to her fond eyes at least, to
be impersonated in this younger self. Bess inherited her mother's
Diana-like figure, blue eyes, fair skin, and golden hair, tied up in
the same classic knot of curls. Also--ah! never-ending source of joy to
Amy--she had her father's handsome nose and mouth, cast in a feminine
mould. The severe simplicity of a long linen pinafore suited her;
and she worked away with the entire absorption of the true artist,
unconscious of the loving eyes upon her
|
good
|
How many times does the word 'good' appear in the text?
| 3
|
BIG COP
</b> Police! Freeze!
The room is almost devoid of furniture. There is a fold-
up table and chair with a phone, a modern, and a powerbook
computer. The only light in the room is the glow of the
computer.
Sitting there, her hands still on the keyboard, is
TRINITY; a woman in black leather.
<b> BIG COP
</b> Get your hands behind your head!
Trinity rises.
<b> BIG COP
</b> Hands behind your head! Now! Do
it!
She slowly puts her hands behind her head.
<b> EXT. CHASE HOTEL - NIGHT
</b>
A black sedan with tinted windows glides in through the
police cruisers.
AGENT SMITH and AGENT BROWN get out of the car.
They wear dark suits and sunglasses even at night. They
are also always hardwired; small Secret Service earphones
in one ear, its cord coiling back into their shirt
collars.
<b> AGENT SMITH
</b> Lieutenant?
<b> LIEUTENANT
</b> Oh shit.
<b> AGENT SMITH
</b> Lieutenant, you were given
specific orders --
<b> LIEUTENANT
</b> I'm just doing my job. You gimme
that Juris-my dick-tion and you
can cran it up your ass.
<b> AGENT SMITH
</b> The orders were for your protection.
The Lieutenant laughs.
<b> LIEUTENANT
</b> I think we can handle one little
girl.
Agent Smith nods to Agent Brown as they start toward the
hotel.
<b> LIEUTENANT
</b> I sent two units. They're
bringing her down now.
<b> AGENT SMITH
</b> No, Lieutenant, your men are dead.
<b> INT. CHASE HOTEL
</b>
The Big Cop flicks out his cuffs, the other cops holding
a bead. They've done this a hundred times, they know
they've got her, until the Big Cop reaches with the cuff
and Trinity moves --
It almost doesn't register, so smooth and fast, inhumanly
fast.
The eye blinks and Trinity's palm. snaps up and the nose
explodes, blood erupting. The cop is dead before he
begins to fall.
And Trinity is moving again --
Seizing a wrist, misdirecting a gun, as a startled cop
<b> FIRES --
</b>
A head explodes.
In blind panic, another airs his gun, the barrel, a fixed
black hole --
And FIRES --
Trinity twists out of the way, the bullet missing as she
reverses into a roundhouse kick, knocking the gun away.
The cop begins to scream when a jump kick crushes his
windpipe, killing the scream as he falls to the ground.
She looks at the four bodies.
<b> TRINITY
</b> Shit.
<b> EXT. CHASE HOTEL
</b>
Agent Brown enters the hotel, while Agent Smith heads for
the alley.
<b> INT. CHASE HOTEL
</b>
Trinity is on the phone, pacing. The other end is
answered.
<b> MAN (V.O.)
</b> Operator.
<b> TRINITY
</b> Morpheus! The link was traced! I
don't know how.
<b> MORPHEUS (V.O.)
</b> I know. Stay calm.
<b> TRINITY
</b> Are there any agents?
<b> MORPHEUS (V.O.)
</b> Yes.
<b> TRINITY
</b> Goddamnit!
<b> MORPHEUS (V.O.)
</b> You have to focus. There is a
phone. Wells and Laxe. You can
make it.
She takes a deep breath, centering herself.
<b> TRINITY
</b> All right --
<b> MORPHEUS (V.O.)
</b> Go.
She drops the phone.
<b> INT. HALL
</b>
She bursts out of the room as Agent Brown enters the hall,
leading another unit of police. Trinity races to the
opposite end, exiting through a broken window onto the
fire escape.
<b> EXT. FIRE E5CAPE
</b>
In the alley below, Trinity sees Agent Smith staring at
her. She can only go up.
<b> EXT. ROOF
</b>
On the roof, Trinity is running as Agent Brown rises over
the parapet, leading the cops in pursuit.
Trinity begins to jump from one roof to the next, her
moverents so clean, gliding in and out of each jump,
contrasted to the wild jumps of the cops.
Agent Brown, however, has the same unnatural grace.
The METAL SCREAM of an EL TRAIN is heard and Trinity
turns to it, racing for the back of the building.
The edge falls away into a wide back alley. The next
building is over 40 feet away, but Trinity's face is
perfectly calm, staring at some point beyond the other
roof.
The cops slow, realizing they are about to see something
ugly as Trinity drives at the edge, launching herself
into the air.
From above, the ground seems to flow beneath her as she
hangs in flight
Then hitting, somersaulting up, still running hard.
<b> COP
</b> Motherfucker -- that's impossible!
They stare, slack-jawed, as Agent Brown duplicates the
move exactly, landing, rolling over a shoulder, up onto
one knee.
Just below the building are the runbling tracks of
riveted steel. The TRAIN SCREECHES beneath her, a
rattling blur of gray metal. Trinity junps, landing
easily.
She looks back just as Agent Brown hurls through the air
barely reaching the last car
Agent Brown stands, yanking out a gun.
Trinity is running hard as BULLETS WHISTLE past her head.
Ahead she sees her only chance, 50 feet beyond the point
where the train has begun to turn, there is --
A window; a yellow glow in the midst of a dark brick
building.
Trinity zeroes in on it, running as hard as she can, her
speed compounded by the train. The SCREAM of the STEEL
rises as she nears the edge where the train rocks into the
turn.
Trinity hurtles into the empty night space, her body
leveling into a dive. She falls, arms covering her head
as --
The whole world seems to spin on its axis --
And she crashes with an EXPLOSION of GLASS and WOOD, then
falls onto a back stairwell, tumbling, bouncing down
stairs bleeding, broken --
But still alive.
Through the smashed window, she glimpses Agent Brown,
still on the train, his tie and coat whipping in the
wind; stone-faced, he touches his ear piece as the train
slides him past the window.
Trinity tries to move. Everything hurts.
<b> TRINITY
</b> Get up, Trinity. You're fine.
Get up -- just get up!
She stands and limps down the rest of the stairs.
<b> EXT. STREET
</b>
Trinity emerges from the shadows of an alley and, at the
end of the block, in a pool of white street light, she
sees it.
The telephone booth.
Obviously hurt, she starts down the concrete walk,
focusing in completely, her pace quickening, as the PHONE
begins to RING.
Across the street, a garbage truck suddenly u-turns, its
TIRES SCREAMING as it accelerates.
Trinity sees the headlights on the truck arcing at the
telephone booth as if taking aim.
Gritting through the pain, she races the truck --
Slamming into the booth, the headlights blindingly
bright, bearing down on the box of Plexiglas just as --
She answers the phone.
There is a frozen instant of silence before the hulking
mass of dark metal lurches up onto the sidewalk --
Barreling through the booth, bulldozing it into a brick
wall, smashing it to Plexiglas pulp.
After a moment, a black loafer steps down from the cab of
the garbage truck. Agent Smith inspects the wreckage.
There is no body. Trinity is gone.
His jaw sets as he grinds his molars in frustration.
AGENT JONES walks up behind him.
<b> AGENT SMITH
</b> Did you get anything from the
room?
<b> AGENT JONES
</b> Their next target. The name is
Neo.
The handset of the pay phone lays on the ground,
separated in the crash like a severed limb.
<b> AGENT SMITH
</b> We'll need a search running.
<b> AGENT JONES
</b> It's already begun.
We are SUCKED TOWARDS the mouthpiece of the phone, CLOSER
and CLOSER, UNTIL the smooth gray plastic spreads out
like a horizon and the small HOLES WIDEN until we fall
through one --
Swallowed by the darkness that becomes --
A computer screen.
We are on-line, inside a chat room called "The Matrix."
It is an exklusive web-site where hackers hang out.
<b> SCREEN
</b> JACKON: I heard Morpheus has been
on this board.
SUPERASTIC: Morpheus doesn't even
exist and the Matrix is nothing
but an advertising gimmick 4 a new
game.
TIMAXE: All I want to know is
Trinity really a girl?
LODIII: 87% of all women on line
are really men.
QUARK: The Matrix is a euphemism
for the government.
SUPERASTIC: No, The Matrix is the
system controlling our lives.
TIMAXE: You mean MTV.
SUPERASTIC: I mean Sega.
<b> FOS4: ALL HAIL SEGA!!!
</b>
We drift back from the electric conversation entering --
<b> INT. NEO'S APARTMENT
</b>
It is a studio apartirent that seems overgrown with
technology.
Weed-like cables coil everywhere, duct-taped into
thickets that wind up and around the legs of several
desks.
Tabletops are filled with cannibalized equipment that lay
open like an autopsied corpse.
We turn towards the center of this rat-nest of
technology, following the slurping and crunching of
cereal. We pass an open box of Capln Crunch as we find --
NEO, a younger man who knows more about living inside a
computer than living outside one.
<b> NEO
</b> Fuckin' idiots don't know shit.
He finishes his cereal and is about to disconnect when an
anonynous message slices onto the screen.
<b> SCREEN
</b> Do you want to know what the
Matrix is, Neo?
Neo is frozen when he reads his name.
<b> SCREEN
</b> SUPERASTIC: Who said that?
JACKON: Who's Neo?
GIBSON: This is a private board.
If you want to know, follow the
white rabbit.
<b> NEO
</b> What the hell...
<b> SCREEN
</b> TIMAXE: Someone is hacking the
hackers!
FOS4: It's Morpheus!!!!!
JACKON: Identify yourself.
Knock, knock, Neo.
A chill runs down his spine and when someone KNOCKS on
his door he almost jumps out of his chair.
He looks at the door, then back at the computer but the
message is gone.
|
trinity
|
How many times does the word 'trinity' appear in the text?
| 3
|
of weather. The only sail we had left
to keep the ship running; so you may guess what it had been like for
days. Anxious sort of job, that. He gave me some of his cursed insolence
at the sheet. I tell you I was overdone with this terrific weather that
seemed to have no end to it. Terrific, I tell you--and a deep ship. I
believe the fellow himself was half crazed with funk. It was no time for
gentlemanly reproof, so I turned round and felled him like an ox. He up
and at me. We closed just as an awful sea made for the ship. All hands
saw it coming and took to the rigging, but I had him by the throat, and
went on shaking him like a rat, the men above us yelling, 'Look out!
look out!' Then a crash as if the sky had fallen on my head. They
say that for over ten minutes hardly anything was to be seen of the
ship--just the three masts and a bit of the forecastle head and of the
poop all awash driving along in a smother of foam. It was a miracle that
they found us, jammed together behind the forebitts. It's clear that I
meant business, because I was holding him by the throat still when they
picked us up. He was black in the face. It was too much for them.
It seems they rushed us aft together, gripped as we were, screaming
'Murder!' like a lot of lunatics, and broke into the cuddy. And the ship
running for her life, touch and go all the time, any minute her last in
a sea fit to turn your hair gray only a-looking at it. I understand that
the skipper, too, started raving like the rest of them. The man had been
deprived of sleep for more than a week, and to have this sprung on him
at the height of a furious gale nearly drove him out of his mind. I
wonder they didn't fling me overboard after getting the carcass of their
precious shipmate out of my fingers. They had rather a job to separate
us, I've been told. A sufficiently fierce story to make an old judge and
a respectable jury sit up a bit. The first thing I heard when I came to
myself was the maddening howling of that endless gale, and on that the
voice of the old man. He was hanging on to my bunk, staring into my face
out of his sou'wester.
"'Mr. Leggatt, you have killed a man. You can act no longer as chief
mate of this ship.'"
His care to subdue his voice made it sound monotonous. He rested a hand
on the end of the skylight to steady himself with, and all that time did
not stir a limb, so far as I could see. "Nice little tale for a quiet
tea party," he concluded in the same tone.
One of my hands, too, rested on the end of the skylight; neither did
I stir a limb, so far as I knew. We stood less than a foot from each
other. It occurred to me that if old "Bless my soul--you don't say so"
were to put his head up the companion and catch sight of us, he would
think he was seeing double, or imagine himself come upon a scene of
weird witchcraft; the strange captain having a quiet confabulation
by the wheel with his own gray ghost. I became very much concerned to
prevent anything of the sort. I heard the other's soothing undertone.
"My father's a parson in Norfolk," it said. Evidently he had forgotten
he had told me this important fact before. Truly a nice little tale.
"You had better slip down into my stateroom now," I said, moving off
stealthily. My double followed my movements; our bare feet made no
sound; I let him in, closed the door with care, and, after giving a call
to the second mate, returned on deck for my relief.
"Not much sign of any wind yet," I remarked when he approached.
"No, sir. Not much," he assented, sleepily, in his hoarse voice, with
just enough deference, no more, and barely suppressing a yawn.
"Well, that's all you have to look out for. You have got your orders."
"Yes, sir."
I paced a turn or two on the poop and saw him take up his position face
forward with his elbow in the ratlines of the mizzen rigging before I
went below. The mate's faint snoring was still going on peacefully.
The cuddy lamp was burning over the table on which stood a vase with
flowers, a polite attention from the ship's provision merchant--the
last flowers we should see for the next three months at the very least.
Two bunches of bananas hung from the beam symmetrically, one on each
side of the rudder casing. Everything was as before in the ship--except
that two of her captain's sleeping suits were simultaneously in use, one
motionless in the cuddy, the other keeping very still in the captain's
stateroom.
It must be explained here that my cabin had the form of the capital
letter L, the door being within the angle and opening into the short
part of the letter. A couch was to the left, the bed place to the right;
my writing desk and the chronometers' table faced the door. But anyone
opening it, unless he stepped right inside, had no view of what I call
the long (or vertical) part of the letter. It contained some lockers
surmounted by a bookcase; and a few clothes, a thick jacket or two,
caps, oilskin coat, and such like, hung on hooks. There was at the
bottom of that part a door opening into my bathroom, which could be
entered also directly from the saloon. But that way was never used.
The mysterious arrival had discovered the advantage of this particular
shape. Entering my room, lighted strongly by a big bulkhead lamp swung
on gimbals above my writing desk, I did not see him anywhere till he
stepped out quietly from behind the coats hung in the recessed part.
"I heard somebody moving about, and went in there at once," he
whispered.
I, too, spoke under my breath.
"Nobody is likely to come in here without knocking and getting
permission."
He nodded. His face was thin and the sunburn faded, as though he had
been ill. And no wonder. He had been, I heard presently, kept under
arrest in his cabin for nearly seven weeks. But there was nothing sickly
in his eyes or in his expression. He was not a bit like me, really; yet,
as we stood leaning over my bed place, whispering side by side, with our
dark heads together and our backs to the door, anybody bold enough to
open it stealthily would have been treated to the uncanny sight of a
double captain busy talking in whispers with his other self.
"But all this doesn't tell me how you came to hang on to our side
ladder," I inquired, in the hardly audible murmurs we used, after he had
told me something more of the proceedings on board the Sephora once the
bad weather was over.
"When we sighted Java Head I had had time to think all those matters out
several times over. I had six weeks of doing nothing else, and with only
an hour or so every evening for a tramp on the quarter-deck."
He whispered, his arms folded on the side of my bed place, staring
through the open port. And I could imagine perfectly the manner of this
thinking out--a stubborn if not a steadfast operation; something of
which I should have been perfectly incapable.
"I reckoned it would be dark before we closed with the land," he
continued, so low that I had to strain my hearing near as we were to
each other, shoulder touching shoulder almost. "So I asked to speak to
the old man. He always seemed very sick when he came to see me--as if he
could not look me in the face. You know, that foresail saved the ship.
She was too deep to have run long under bare poles. And it was I
that managed to set it for him. Anyway, he came. When I had him in my
cabin--he stood by the door looking at me as if I had the halter round
my neck already--I asked him right away to leave my cabin door unlocked
at night while the ship was going through Sunda Straits. There would
be the Java coast within two or three miles, off Angier Point. I wanted
nothing more. I've had a prize for swimming my second year in the
Conway."
"I can believe it," I breathed out.
"God only knows why they locked me in every night. To see some of
their faces you'd have thought they were afraid I'd go about at night
strangling people. Am I a murdering brute? Do I look it? By Jove! If I
had been he wouldn't have trusted himself like that into my room. You'll
say I might have chucked him aside and bolted out, there and then--it
was dark already. Well, no. And for the same reason I wouldn't think of
trying to smash the door. There would have been a rush to stop me at the
noise, and I did not mean to get into a confounded scrimmage. Somebody
else might have got killed--for I would not have broken out only to
get chucked back, and I did not want any more of that work. He refused,
looking more sick than ever. He was afraid of the men, and also of
that old second mate of his who had been sailing with him for years--a
gray-headed old humbug; and his steward, too, had been with him devil
knows how long--seventeen years or more--a dogmatic sort of loafer who
hated me like poison, just because I was the chief mate. No chief mate
ever made more than one voyage in the Sephora, you know. Those two old
chaps ran the ship. Devil only knows what the skipper wasn't afraid of
(all his nerve went to pieces altogether in that hellish spell of bad
weather we had)--of what the law would do to him--of his wife, perhaps.
Oh, yes! she's on board. Though I don't think she would have meddled.
She would have been only too glad to have me out of the ship in any way.
The 'brand of Cain' business, don't you see. That's all right. I was
ready enough to go off wandering on the face of the earth--and that was
price enough to pay for an Abel of that sort. Anyhow, he wouldn't listen
to me. 'This thing must take its course. I represent the law here.' He
was shaking like a leaf. 'So you won't?' 'No!' 'Then I hope you will
be able to sleep on that,' I said, and turned my back on him. 'I wonder
that you can,' cries he, and locks the door.
"Well after that, I couldn't. Not very well. That was three weeks ago.
We have had a slow passage through the Java Sea; drifted about Carimata
for ten days. When we anchored here they thought, I suppose, it was
all right. The nearest land (and that's five miles) is the ship's
destination; the consul would soon set about catching me; and there
would have been no object in holding to these islets there. I don't
suppose there's a drop of water on them. I don't know how it was, but
tonight that steward, after bringing me my supper, went out to let me
eat it, and left the door unlocked. And I ate it--all there was, too.
After I had finished I strolled out on the quarter-deck. I don't know
that I meant to do anything. A breath of fresh air was all I wanted, I
believe. Then a sudden temptation came over me. I kicked off my slippers
and was in the water before I had made up my mind fairly. Somebody heard
the splash and they raised an awful hullabaloo. 'He's gone! Lower the
boats! He's committed suicide! No, he's swimming.' Certainly I was
swimming. It's not so easy for a swimmer like me to commit suicide by
drowning. I landed on the nearest islet before the boat left the ship's
side. I heard them pulling about in the dark, hailing, and so on, but
after a bit they gave up. Everything quieted down and the anchorage
became still as death. I sat down on a stone and began to think. I felt
certain they would start searching for me at daylight. There was no
place to hide on those stony things--and if there had been, what would
have been the good? But now I was clear of that ship, I was not going
back. So after a while I took off all my clothes, tied them up in a
bundle with a stone inside, and dropped them in the deep water on the
outer side of that islet. That was suicide enough for me. Let them think
what they liked, but I didn't mean to drown myself. I meant to swim till
I sank--but that's not the same thing. I struck out for another of these
little islands, and it was from that one that I first saw your riding
light. Something to swim for. I went on easily, and on the way I came
upon a flat rock a foot or two above water. In the daytime, I dare say,
you might make it out with a glass from your poop. I scrambled up on it
and rested myself for a bit. Then I made another start. That last spell
must have been over a mile."
His whisper was getting fainter and fainter, and all the time he stared
straight out through the porthole, in which there was not even a star
to be seen. I had not interrupted him. There was something that made
comment impossible in his narrative, or perhaps in himself; a sort of
feeling, a quality, which I can't find a name for. And when he ceased,
all I found was a futile whisper: "So you swam for our light?"
"Yes--straight for it. It was something to swim for. I couldn't see any
stars low down because the coast was in the way, and I couldn't see the
land, either. The water was like glass. One might have been swimming in
a confounded thousand-feet deep cistern with no place for scrambling out
anywhere; but what I didn't like was the notion of swimming round and
round like a crazed bullock before I gave out; and as I didn't mean to
go back... No. Do you see me being hauled back, stark naked, off one
of these little islands by the scruff of the neck and fighting like a
wild beast? Somebody would have got killed for certain, and I did not
want any of that. So I went on. Then your ladder--"
"Why didn't you hail the ship?" I asked, a little louder.
He touched my shoulder lightly. Lazy footsteps came right over our heads
and stopped. The
|
been
|
How many times does the word 'been' appear in the text?
| 3
|
DISSOLVE
</b>
<b> EXT. FORSTER CAMP - DAWN
</b>
MED SHOT - ANGLED ACROSS campfire. On the fire smoulders the
prison clothes the convicts had worn. Smoke spirals up. In
the B.B. Lednov, Peters and McCall, now wearing the clothes
of the three Forsters, saddle the horses. CAMERA PANS AROUND
and ANGLES DOWN. The bodies of Forster and his sons, now
clad in underwear are sprawled by the fire. Forster's arm
lies close to the smouldering clothing.
<b> DISSOLVE
</b>
<b> EXT. CREEK - DAWN
</b>
MED. LONG SHOT. Smoke climbs above the trees. Into the
clearing ride the three convicts, to cross it and move
westward. They disappear over the hill. A dust cloud marks
their passage. CAMERA HOLDS ON the scene and over the shot
comes the MAIN TITLE CARD:
<b> ROUGHSHOD
</b>
<b> EXT. DESERT ROAD - DAY
</b>
LONG SHOT. A buckboard drawn by two horses comes along the
road. Graham, a middle-aged rancher, is driving. As the horses
trot forward and dust rises above the road, the NEXT TITLE
CARD is shown.
<b> DISSOLVE
</b>
<b> EXT. CREEK - DAY
</b>
LONG SHOT - DOWN ANGLE. Graham's buckboard moves down the
road toward the clearing, as the TITLE CARDS follow and
change. When the buckboard reaches the creek, the LAST TITLE
CARD is ended.
<b> EXT. MEADOW - DAY
</b>
MED. SHOT. Graham drives the horses through the creek and
into the meadow. Through the trees the Forster camp can be
seen. Graham glances over, then suddenly pulls on the reins.
As the horses stop, he twists the reins around the whip stock,
grabs his rifle from under the seat, leaps out and hurries
forward toward the camp.
<b> EXT. FORSTER CAMP - DAY
</b>
MED. SHOT. Graham hurries through the trees to stop in horror
near the dead men. Then very slowly he moves forward to the
smouldering fire. Stooping he lifts Forster's arm away from
the fire, then picks up one of the prison coats and looks at
it.
<b> DISSOLVE
</b>
<b> EXT. DESERT ROAD - DAY
</b>
MED. LONG SHOT. The surrounding hills are covered with scrub
pinon pine and mesquite. Graham's buckboard, moving slowly
up a hill, passes camera, which PANS WITH it. In the bed,
covered by a tarp, are the three bodies. The narrow, one-way
road climbs easily up the gentle hill. Beyond, a dust cloud
rises. As Graham's buckboard nears the crest, a surrey appears
and starts down. Graham pulls his team into the bank, trying
to make room for the surrey.
<b> MED. SHOT
</b>
There are four women in the two-seated surrey, which is
heavily loaded with trunks, hatboxes, etc. Mary Wells, the
loveliest of the four, is driving. She is more poised, more
self-assured than the others. Her clothes, though a trifle
showy, are attractive. She wears a large spectacular hat.
Helen Carter, showier, harder and more cynical, sits beside
her. In the seat behind are Marcia Paine, placid, younger
looking than her years, and Elaine Ross, a striking blonde
with a pale haunted face. Elaine is obviously ill. Mary is
riding the brake and holding the team back.
<b> ANOTHER ANGLE
</b>
SHOOTING PAST Graham.
<b> GRAHAM
</b> (annoyed)
What in thunderation --
(calling)
Wait a minute -- stop --
He jerks on the reins and tries to make room for the surrey.
A steep bank is on camera left. On camera right, the road
drops off into a gulley. As the surrey comes up Mary reins
the team in. The women all look frightened. Graham, trying
to force his team to pull the vehicle up the bank, is too
occupied to recognize the women at once. Having made just
enough room for the surrey, he turns and looks at the women.
<b> GRAHAM
</b> All right --
(then surprised)
What are you girls doin' way out
here?
Mary looks ahead at the narrow road and the canyon to her
left.
<b> MARY
</b> Until you came along we were going
to Sonora.
<b> GRAHAM
</b> What do you know about that. Did you
sell your place?
<b> MARY
</b> (dryly)
Not exactly. They decided gambling
and dancing were bad for people.
(pointing)
Can I make it?
<b> GRAHAM
</b> Depends on how good you drive.
<b> HELEN
</b> She's a little out of practice.
Graham jumps over the wheel.
<b> MED. CLOSE ON SURREY
</b>
Graham reaches the surrey.
<b> GRAHAM
</b> (cheerfully)
Slide over.
<b>
|
surrey
|
How many times does the word 'surrey' appear in the text?
| 2
|
End of preview. Expand
in Data Studio
README.md exists but content is empty.
- Downloads last month
- 1