context
stringlengths 5.83k
20.3k
| word
stringlengths 4
15
| claim
stringlengths 55
66
| label
int64 0
3
|
|---|---|---|---|
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. It would not be: "Have ye
heard Jos's latest?" It would be: "Have ye heard about young Machin,
Duncalf's clerk?"
Then he met Ruth Earp, strolling in the opposite direction with a young
girl, one of her pupils, of whom all he knew was that her name was
Nellie, and that this was her first ball: a childish little thing with a
wistful face. He could not decide whether to look at Ruth or to avoid
her glance. She settled the point by smiling at him in a manner that
could not be ignored.
"Are you going to make it up to me for that waltz you missed?" said Ruth
Earp. She pretended to be vexed and stern, but he knew that she was not.
"Or is your programme full?" she added.
"I should like to," he said simply.
"But perhaps you don't care to dance with us poor, ordinary people, now
you've danced with the _Countess_!" she said, with a certain lofty
and bitter pride.
He perceived that his tone had lacked eagerness.
"Don't talk like that," he said, as if hurt.
"Well," she said, "you can have the supper dance."
He took her programme to write on it.
"Why," he said, "there's a name down here for the supper dance.
'Herbert,' it looks like."
"Oh!" she replied carelessly, "that's nothing. Cross it out."
So he crossed Herbert out.
"Why don't you ask Nellie here for a dance?" said Ruth Earp.
And Nellie blushed. He gathered that the possible honour of dancing with
the supremely great man had surpassed Nellie's modest expectations.
"Can I have the next one?" he said.
"Oh, yes!" Nellie timidly whispered.
"It's a polka, and you aren't very good at polking, you know," Ruth
warned him. "Still, Nellie will pull you through."
Nellie laughed, in silver. The naïve child thought that Ruth was trying
to joke at Denry's expense. Her very manifest joy and pride in being
seen with the unique Mr Machin, in being the next after the Countess to
dance with him, made another mirror in which Denry could discern the
reflection of his vast importance.
At the supper, which was worthy of the hospitable traditions of the
Chell family (though served standing-up in the police-court), he learnt
all the gossip of the dance from Ruth Earp; amongst other things that
more than one young man had asked the Countess for a dance, and had been
refused, though Ruth Earp for her part declined to believe that aldermen
and councillors had utterly absorbed the Countess's programme. Ruth
hinted that the Countess was keeping a second dance open for him, Denry.
When she asked him squarely if he meant to request another from the
Countess, he said no, positively. He knew when to let well alone, a
knowledge which is more precious than a knowledge of geography. The
supper was the summit of Denry's triumph. The best people spoke to him
without being introduced. And lovely creatures mysteriously and
intoxicatingly discovered that programmes which had been crammed two
hours before were not, after all, quite full.
"Do tell us what the Countess was laughing at?" This question was shot
at him at least thirty times. He always said he would not tell. And one
girl who had danced with Mr Stanway, who had danced with the Countess,
said that Mr Stanway had said that the Countess would not tell either.
Proof, here, that he was being extensively talked about!
Towards the end of the festivity the rumour floated abroad that the
Countess had lost her fan. The rumour reached Denry, who maintained a
culpable silence. But when all was over, and the Countess was departing,
he rushed down after her, and, in a dramatic fashion which demonstrated
his genius for the effective, he caught her exactly as she was getting
into her carriage.
"I've just picked it up," he said, pushing through the crowd of
worshippers.
"On! thank you so much!" she said. And the Earl also thanked Denry. And
then the Countess, leaning from the carriage, said, with archness in her
efficient smile: "You do pick things up easily, don't you?"
And both Denry and the Countess laughed without restraint, and the
pillars of Bursley society were mystified.
Denry winked at Jock as the horses pawed away. And Jock winked back.
The envied of all, Denry walked home, thinking violently. At a stroke he
had become possessed of more than he could earn from Duncalf in a month.
The faces of the Countess, of Ruth Earp, and of the timid Nellie mingled
in exquisite hallucinations before his tired eyes. He was inexpressibly
happy. Trouble, however, awaited him.
CHAPTER II
THE WIDOW HULLINS'S HOUSE
I
The simple fact that he first, of all the citizens of Bursley, had asked
a countess for a dance (and not been refused) made a new man of Denry
Machin. He was not only regarded by the whole town as a fellow wonderful
and dazzling, but he so regarded himself. He could not get over it. He
had always been cheerful, even to optimism. He was now in a permanent
state of calm, assured jollity. He would get up in the morning with song
and dance. Bursley and the general world were no longer Bursley and the
general world; they had been mysteriously transformed into an oyster;
and Denry felt strangely that the oyster-knife was lying about somewhere
handy, but just out of sight, and that presently he should spy it and
seize it. He waited for something to happen. And not in vain.
A few days after the historic revelry, Mrs Codleyn called to see Denry's
employer. Mr Duncalf was her solicitor. A stout, breathless, and yet
muscular woman of near sixty, the widow of a chemist and druggist who
had made money before limited companies had taken the liberty of being
pharmaceutical. The money had been largely invested in mortgage on
cottage property; the interest on it had not been paid, and
|
males
|
How many times does the word 'males' appear in the text?
| 0
|
"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 her:
"Well, Laurine has become sociable; what a miracle!"
The young man rose to take his leave, fearing he might spoil his
conquest by some awkward word. He bowed to the ladies, clasped and
gently pressed their hands, and then shook hands with the men. He
observed that Jacques Rival's was dry and warm and responded cordially
to his pressure; Norbert de Varenne's was moist and cold and slipped
through his fingers; Walter's was cold and soft, without life,
expressionless; Forestier's fat and warm.
His friend whispered to him: "To-morrow at three o'clock; do not
forget."
"Never fear!"
When he reached the staircase, he felt like running down, his joy was
so great; he went down two steps at a time, but suddenly on the second
floor, in the large mirror, he saw a gentleman hurrying on, and he
slackened his pace, as much ashamed as if he had been surprised in a
crime.
He surveyed himself some time with a complacent smile; then taking
leave of his image, he bowed low, ceremoniously, as if saluting some
grand personage.
CHAPTER III.
FIRST ATTEMPTS
When Georges Duroy reached the street, he hesitated as to what he
should do. He felt inclined to stroll along, dreaming of the future and
inhaling the soft night air; but the thought of the series of articles
ordered by M. Walter occurred to him, and he decided to return home at
once and begin work. He walked rapidly along until he came to Rue
Boursault. The tenement in which he lived was occupied by twenty
families--families of workingmen--and as he mounted the staircase he
experienced a sensation of disgust and a desire to live as wealthy men
do. Duroy's room was on the fifth floor. He entered it, opened his
window, and looked out: the view was anything but prepossessing.
He turned away, thinking: "This won't do. I must go to work." So he
placed his light upon the table and began to write. He dipped his pen
into the ink and wrote at the head of his paper in a bold hand:
"Souvenirs of a Soldier in Africa." Then he cast about for the first
phrase. He rested his head upon his hand and stared at the blank sheet
before him. What should he say? Suddenly he thought: "I must begin with
my departure," and he wrote: "In 1874, about the fifteenth of May, when
exhausted France was recruiting after the catastrophe of the terrible
years--" Here he stopped short, not knowing how to introduce his
subject. After a few minutes' reflection, he decided to lay aside that
page until the following day, and to write a description of Algiers. He
began: "Algiers is a very clean city--" but he could not continue.
After an effort he added: "It is inhabited partly by Arabs." Then he
threw his pen upon the table and arose. He glanced around his miserable
room; mentally he rebelled against his poverty and resolved to leave
the next day.
Suddenly the desire to work came on him, and he tried to begin the
article again; he had vague ideas of what he wanted to say, but he
could not express his thoughts in words. Convinced of his inability he
arose once more, his blood coursing rapidly through his veins. He
turned to the window just as the train was coming out of the tunnel,
and his thoughts reverted to his parents. He saw their tiny home on the
heights overlooking Rouen and the valley of the Seine. His father and
mother kept an inn, La Belle-Vue, at which the citizens of the
faubourgs took their lunches on Sundays. They had wished to make a
"gentleman" of their son and had sent him to college. His studies
completed, he had entered the army with the intention of becoming an
officer, a colonel, or a general. But becoming disgusted with military
life, he determined to try his fortune in Paris. When his time of
service had expired, he went thither, with what results we have seen.
He awoke from his reflections as the locomotive whistled shrilly,
closed his window, and began to disrobe, muttering: "Bah, I shall be
able to work better to-morrow morning. My brain is not clear to-night.
I have drunk a little too much. I can't work well under such
circumstances." He extinguished his light and fell asleep.
He awoke early, and, rising, opened his window to inhale the fresh air.
In a few moments he seated himself at his table, dipped his pen in the
ink, rested his head upon his hand and thought--but in vain! However,
he was not discouraged, but in thought reassured himself: "Bah, I am
not accustomed to it! It is a profession that must be learned like all
professions. Some one must help me the first time. I'll go to
Forestier. He'll start my article for me in ten minutes."
When he reached the street, Duroy decided that it was rather early to
present himself at his friend's house, so he strolled along under the
trees on one of the boulevards for a time. On arriving at Forestier's
door, he found his friend going out.
"You here--at this hour! Can I do anything for you?"
Duroy stammered in confusion: "I--I--cannot write that article on
Algeria that M. Walter wants. It is not very surprising, seeing that I
have never written anything. It requires practice. I could write very
rapidly, I am sure, if I could make a beginning. I have the ideas but I
cannot express them." He paused and hesitated.
Forestier smiled maliciously: "I understand that."
Duroy continued: "Yes, anyone is liable to have that trouble at the
beginning; and, well--I have come to ask you to help me. In ten minutes
you can set me right. You can give me a lesson in style; without you I
can do nothing."
The other smiled gaily. He patted his companion's arm and said to him:
"Go to my wife; she will help you better than I can. I have trained her
for that work. I have not time this morning or I would do it willingly."
But Duroy hesitated: "At this hour I cannot inquire for her."
|
business
|
How many times does the word 'business' appear in the text?
| 0
|
'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 pulls a metal vaccinating gun out of the medicine cabinet.
Then be loads it with a small bottle of medicine. He rolls up
his sleeve, dabs alcohol on his arm, and fires the gun into
his arm.
<b> MAX (V.O.)
</b> Sixteen thirty-five.
Second headache in under
twenty-four hours. They're
getting more frequent
now...more painful, too. Drugs
don't work, just take the
edge off of it. Just gotta
wait for the nosebleed.
Relief comes from my nose.
<b>
</b> Next door, he hears Devi and her boyfriend talking.
<b> FARROUHK (O.S.)
</b> So I gotta make this drop off
in Harlem and on the way down
there's these three kids
hailing me.
Max slaps himself in the face a few times.
<b> DEVI (O.S.)
</b> You stopped?
<b>
</b><b> FARROUHK (O.S.)
</b> I was tight, so...
<b>
</b> Max watches his thumb twitch. And then pain shoots through
him. He grabs the right side of his head, massages it, and
pushes it in with his fingers.
In the mirror, he examines the right side of his scalp. He
sees nothing
<b> MAX
</b> Ahh...
<b>
</b> Max walks back into the
<b> MAIN ROOM
</b>
and sits down in a chair. The lamp is blinding so he
snaps it off. Only the bathroom light lights the room. He
takes a few breaths.
<b> MAX
</b> Leave me alone.
<b>
</b> His neighbors conversation begins to build in volume
and distortion.
<b> FARROUHK (O.S.)
</b> So I drop them off in the
Village and they dart.
<b> DEVI (O.S.)
</b> Oh God...
<b>
</b> Max gags and rubs his head.
<b> FARROUHK (O.S.)
</b> I get out, grab my bat and
start running. One of the kids,
maybe sixteen, I catch a block
later he's cursing at me, calling
me a Paki bastard. So I whacked him,
right in the head.
<b> DEVI (O.S.)
</b> Farrouhk!
<b>
</b> The pain seems to disappear. Max looks at his hand that was
rubbing his bead.
Then he looks at the front door. The doorknob seems to
move.
Something begins knocking on Max's door. The knocking gets
louder and louder then the locks begin to unlock.
FARROUHK's words begin to overpower Max.
<b> FARROUHK (O.S.)
</b> I'm kicking the bastard in the
ribs banging his ass, knocking his
head against the curb, harder
and harder, I fucking lost
it. A hot dog guy starts
screaming "You're cracking his
skull, you're cracking his
skull." So they pulled me off
of him and calmed me down.
Cops said he had it coming to
him.
<b>
</b> Then something starts pounding the door. The doorknob quivers,
the locks unbolt. The chains are the only thing keeping out
the intruder. The door shakes and the chains are strained.
MAX is paralyzed with terror.
<b> MAX
</b> No! No!
<b>
</b> And then the door smashes open. Blinding light fills the room
and we crash into the
<b> BLINDING WHITE VOID
</b>
A moment of silence, then we
<b> CUT TO
</b><b> INT. BATHROOM - DAWN
</b> A phone rings incessantly. Max's eyes pop open. He's scrunched
up in a corner of the room, squashed beneath the sink.
His nose is bleeding.
Max, crawls into the
<b> MAIN ROOM
</b>
and picks up the phone. He pinches his nose and tilts his head
back.
<b> MARCY DAWSON
</b> Mr. Cohen. Marcy
Dawson here again I was just
looking over my schedule and
I realized I'll be in your
neighborhood tomorrow around
three.
Max heads to the
<b> FRONT DOOR
</b>
and checks the locks. He is barely listening to Marcy
<b> MAX
</b> (Groggy)
Who is...
<b>
</b> The locks seem secure.
<b> MARCY DAWSON
</b> Marcy Dawson from
Lancet-Percy I'm so anxious
to meet you. It will be worth
itfor both of us I promise.
See you at your house at
three, okay?
<b>
|
examines
|
How many times does the word 'examines' appear in the text?
| 0
|
> "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.
<b> BOB
</b> For relaxing times, make it Suntory
Time.
<b> CUT TO:
</b>
<b> EXT. TOKYO - NIGHT
</b>
Shinjuku High rises sparkle.
<b> INT. PARK HYATT BAR - NIGHT
</b>
Tall glass walls show the neon and high-rises of the city.
A sad and romantic Bill Evans song plays. Bob sits alone
with a scotch at the bar.
Some drunk AMERICAN BUSINESSMEN, with their ties thrown over
their shoulders recognize him.
<b> BUSINESS GUY
</b> Hey- you're Bob Harris- you're
awesome, man.
<b> ANOTHER BUSINESS GUY
</b> Yeah, I love Sunset Odds! BOB Oh,
Ok, thanks.
<b> BUSINESS GUY
</b> Man, that car chase-
Bob nods.
<b> INT. BOB'S HOTEL ROOM - NIGHT
</b>
Bob comes back to his room. The maids have left everything
perfect, his beige bed is turned down, and the TV has been
left on to a channel playing a montage of flower close-ups
in nature while sad violin music plays. It's supposed to be
relaxing, but it's just sad.
<b> CUT TO:
</b>
Bob lies in bed. He flips through TV channels from the remote
control. He passes a Japanese game show, to an 80s Cannon
Ball run-type movie with him in it dubbed into Japanese. He
turns it off as he hears a knock at the door.
He goes to the door, and opens it part way.
<b> WOMAN (O.C.)
</b> (Raspy Japanese voice)
Mr. Harris?
<b> BOB
</b> Yes?
<b> WOMAN
</b> Mr. Kazuzo sent me.
<b> BOB
</b> Oh?
|
comes
|
How many times does the word 'comes' appear in the text?
| 0
|
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 sore places in
their memories, that this was a point which he must not touch again.
"And since that, I suppose, you've played it alone."
"I've played it alone."
"You must ship some of this paint of yours to foreign countries,
Colonel?" suggested Bartley, putting on a professional air.
"We ship it to all parts of the world. It goes to South America, lots
of it. It goes to Australia, and it goes to India, and it goes to
China, and it goes to the Cape of Good Hope. It'll stand any climate.
Of course, we don't export these fancy brands much. They're for home
use. But we're introducing them elsewhere. Here." Lapham pulled open
a drawer, and showed Bartley a lot of labels in different
languages--Spanish, French, German, and Italian. "We expect to do a
good business in all those countries. We've got our agencies in Cadiz
now, and in Paris, and in Hamburg, and in Leghorn. It's a thing that's
bound to make its way. Yes, sir. Wherever a man has got a ship, or a
bridge, or a lock, or a house, or a car, or a fence, or a pig-pen
anywhere in God's universe to paint, that's the paint for him, and he's
bound to find it out sooner or later. You pass a ton of that paint dry
through a blast-furnace, and you'll get a quarter of a ton of pig-iron.
I believe in my paint. I believe it's a blessing to the world. When
folks come in, and kind of smell round, and ask me what I mix it with,
I always say, 'Well, in the first place, I mix it with FAITH, and after
that I grind it up with the best quality of boiled linseed oil that
money will buy.'"
Lapham took out his watch and looked at it, and Bartley perceived that
his audience was drawing to a close. "'F you ever want to run down and
take a look at our works, pass you over the road,"--he called it
RUD--"and it sha'n't cost you a cent." "Well, may be I shall,
sometime," said Bartley. "Good afternoon, Colonel."
"Good afternoon. Or--hold on! My horse down there yet, William?" he
called to the young man in the counting-room who had taken his letter
at the beginning of the interview. "Oh! All right!" he added, in
response to something the young man said.
"Can't I set you down somewhere, Mr. Hubbard? I've got my horse at the
door, and I can drop you on my way home. I'm going to take Mis' Lapham
to look at a house I'm driving piles for, down on the New Land."
"Don't care if I do," said Bartley.
Lapham put on a straw hat, gathered up some papers lying on his desk,
pulled down its rolling cover, turned the key in it, and gave the
papers to an extremely handsome young woman at one of the desks in the
outer office. She was stylishly dressed, as Bartley saw, and her
smooth, yellow hair was sculpturesquely waved over a low, white
forehead. "Here," said Lapham, with the same prompt gruff kindness
that he had used in addressing the young man, "I want you should put
these in shape, and give me a type-writer copy to-morrow."
"What an uncommonly pretty girl!" said Bartley, as they descended the
rough stairway and found their way out to the street, past the dangling
rope of a block and tackle wandering up into the cavernous darkness
overhead.
"She does her work," said Lapham shortly.
Bartley mounted to the left side of the open buggy standing at the
curb-stone, and Lapham, gathering up the hitching-weight, slid it under
the buggy-seat and mounted beside him.
"No chance to speed a horse here, of course," said Lapham, while the
horse with a spirited gentleness picked her way, with a high, long
action, over the pavement of the street. The streets were all narrow,
and most of them crooked, in that quarter of the town; but at the end
of one the spars of a vessel pencilled themselves delicately against
the cool blue of the afternoon sky. The air was full of a smell
pleasantly compounded of oakum, of leather, and of oil. It was not the
busy season, and they met only two or three trucks heavily straggling
toward the wharf with their long string teams; but the cobble-stones of
the pavement were worn with the dint of ponderous wheels, and
discoloured with iron-rust from them; here and there, in wandering
streaks over its surface, was the grey stain of the salt water with
which the street had been sprinkled.
After an interval of some minutes, which both men spent in looking
round the dash-board from opposite sides to watch the stride of the
horse, Bartley said, with a light sigh, "I had a colt once down in
Maine that stepped just like that mare."
"Well!" said Lapham, sympathetically recognising the bond that this
fact created between them. "Well, now, I tell you what you do. You
let me come for you 'most any afternoon, now, and take you out over the
Milldam, and speed this mare a little. I'd like to show you what this
mare can do. Yes, I would."
"All right," answered Bartley; "I'll let you know my first day off."
"Good," cried Lapham.
"Kentucky?" queried Bartley.
"No, sir. I don't ride behind anything but Vermont; never did. Touch
of Morgan, of course; but you can't have much Morgan in a horse if you
want speed. Hambletonian mostly. Where'd you say you wanted to get
out?"
"I guess you may put me down at the Events Office, just round the
corner here. I've got to write up this interview while it's fresh."
"All right," said Lapham, impersonally assenting to Bartley's use of
him as material.
He
|
sculpturesquely
|
How many times does the word 'sculpturesquely' appear in the text?
| 0
|
</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.O.V./SCOPE - WINDOW #2
</b>
of an empty street. The bicycle messenger flashes past.
<b> MARTIN
</b>
concentrating, tracks the path of the Messenger, leading him
left to right across the blind spot of the hotel room wall
between Window #2 and Window #1.
<b> STREET
</b>
the bicycle Messenger bears down on the group of men, drawing
a Mac-10 submachine gun from his bag. The group see him--
just as Martin's sniper FIRE explodes the Messenger's chest.
Two of the Bodyguards collapse onto their boss. The other
two open fire on the Messenger as he wipes out horribly into
a parked car in front of them.
<b> MARTIN
</b>
withdraws from the window, and picks up the phone again and
begins to break down the rifle.
<b> MARTIN
</b> Sorry Tom. But look, I know it's the
playoffs. That's why I'm offering a
thousand dollars for one seat...
Martin listens patiently as he works.
<b> EXT. STREET - SAME - INTERCUT
</b>
<b> DOORMAN'S HANDS
</b>
unbuttoning his double-breasted long coat.
<b> MARTIN
</b>
just finishes packing.
<b> MARTIN
</b> ...Well let me ask you, Tom. What do
I have to do to get courtside tickets
for the Knicks...?
<b> STREET
</b>
The two bodyguards kick at the Messenger's body. The other
two begin to move off of their boss, who rises cowering. The
Doorman stands behind it all, unbuttoning his coat.
<b> DOORMAN
</b>
a tall, dark, sharp-featured man in his forties, wearing a
handlebar moustache. He moves toward the group of men as he
flips open his coat back over two huge chrome .44 Magnum
Charthouse Bulldog revolvers and OPENS FIRE on them.
<b> MARTIN
</b>
is closing his bag when he hears the gun-thunder.
<b> MARTIN
</b> Never mind. I gotta go.
Martin drops the phone, grabs his scope, and spins to the
window.
<b> MARTIN'S P.O.V./SCOPE
</b>
of the Doorman kicking through the pile of dead bodyguards.
He gets to the man at the bottom-- their boss. The Doorman
FIRES both guns.
<b> MARTIN
</b>
reacts, surprised to see a second shooter. He pulls himself
from the window, puts away his scope, and accelerates his
exit.
<b> HIGH-RISE FOYER
</b>
Outside, we see the doorman drop both guns on the pile of
bodies. He walks back toward us through the glass doors and
makes his way through the building toward the service exit.
He sheds his uniform and stuffs it into a plastic bag.
<b> MARTIN
</b>
his two parcels in hand, exits out the side door of the hotel
and walks down the street.
<b> DOORMAN
</b>
now wearing rich man's sweats, hops off the loading dock,
walks to a Lincoln Town Car, and drives off.
<b> INT. MARTIN'S AND GROCERS CARS - DAY
</b>
Martin rolls down FDR Drive in a Lincoln Town Car once again
on the cellular.
<b> MARTIN
</b> ...Tell them that's not my problem.
I was paid for one job-- the cyclist--
not two. See you tomorrow, Marcella.
<b> MARCELLA
</b> Wait. I have Mr. Grocer for you.
<b> MARTIN
</b> Patch him through....
Martin notices another Town Car appears in the next lane. We
recognize the Doorman behind the wheel, phone in hand. He is
<b> GROCER.
</b>
<b> MARTIN
</b> What do you want?
<b> GROCER
</b> I'm setting up a concern that would
enable those of us in our rarefied
profession to consolidate our efforts.
<b> MARTIN
</b> Like a union?
<b> GROCER
</b> Like a club. Work less, make more.
<b> MARTIN
</b> Thank you, no.
<b> GROCER
</b> We could be working together, making
big money, killing important people...
I'm willing to let you in on the
ground floor.
<b> MARTIN
</b> And you could be... sort of like...
a father figure to me....
Grocer ignores this.
<b> GROCER
</b> It's a free-market evolution. You'll
wake up to it... c'mon Kid. We used
to run together when you were a
rookie. I don't want to run against
you. This thing's real. Everybody's
in.
<b> MARTIN
</b>
|
tosses
|
How many times does the word 'tosses' appear in the text?
| 0
|
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 iniquity, and be carried quick into hell;
and that the young stem of the corrupt trunk might also be taken from a
world that he disgraced, but that his sins might be pardoned, because
he knew no better."
Such were the tenets in which it would appear young Robert was bred. He
was an acute boy, an excellent learner, had ardent and ungovernable
passions, and, withal, a sternness of demeanour from which other boys
shrunk. He was the best grammarian, the best reader, writer, and
accountant in the various classes that he attended, and was fond of
writing essays on controverted points of theology, for which he got
prizes, and great praise from his guardian and mother. George was much
behind him in scholastic acquirements, but greatly his superior in
personal prowess, form, feature, and all that constitutes gentility in
the deportment and appearance. The laird had often manifested to Miss
Logan an earnest wish that the two young men should never meet, or at
all events that they should be as little conversant as possible; and
Miss Logan, who was as much attached to George as if he had been her
own son, took every precaution, while he was a boy, that he should
never meet with his brother; but, as they advanced towards manhood,
this became impracticable. The lady was removed from her apartments in
her husband's house to Glasgow, to her great content; and all to
prevent the young laird being tainted with the company of her and her
second son; for the laird had felt the effects of the principles they
professed, and dreaded them more than persecution, fire, and sword.
During all the dreadful times that had overpast, though the laird had
been a moderate man, he had still leaned to the side of kingly
prerogative, and had escaped confiscation and fines, without ever
taking any active hand in suppressing the Covenanters. But, after
experiencing a specimen of their tenets and manner in his wife, from a
secret favourer of them and their doctrines, he grew alarmed at the
prevalence of such stern and factious principles, now that there was no
check or restraint upon them; and from that time he began to set
himself against them, joining with the Cavalier party of that day in
all their proceedings.
It so happened that, under the influence of the Earls of Seafield and
Tullibardine, he was returned for a Member of Parliament in the famous
session that sat at Edinburgh when the Duke of Queensberry was
commissioner, and in which party spirit ran to such an extremity. The
young laird went with his father to the court, and remained in town all
the time that the session lasted; and, as all interested people of both
factions flocked to the town at that period, so the important Mr.
Wringhim was there among the rest, during the greater part of the time,
blowing the coal of revolutionary principles with all his might, in
every society to which he could obtain admission. He was a great
favourite with some of the west country gentlemen of that faction, by
reason of his unbending impudence. No opposition could for a moment
cause him either to blush, or retract one item that he had advanced.
Therefore the Duke of Argyle and his friends made such use of him as
sportsmen often do of terriers, to start the game, and make a great
yelping noise to let them know whither the chase is proceeding. They
often did this out of sport, in order to tease their opponent; for of
all pesterers that ever fastened on man he was the most insufferable:
knowing that his coat protected him from manual chastisement, he spared
no acrimony, and delighted in the chagrin and anger of those with whom
he contended. But he was sometimes likewise of real use to the heads of
the Presbyterian faction, and therefore was admitted to their tables,
and of course conceived himself a very great man.
His ward accompanied him; and, very shortly after their arrival in
Edinburgh, Robert, for the first time, met with the young laird his
brother, in a match at tennis. The prowess and agility of the young
squire drew forth the loudest plaudits of approval from his associates,
and his own exertion alone carried the game every time on the one side,
and that so far as all I along to count three for their one. The hero's
name soon ran round the circle, and when his brother Robert, who was an
onlooker, learned who it was that was gaining so much applause, he came
and stood close beside him all the time that the game lasted, always
now and then putting in a cutting remark by way of mockery.
George could not help perceiving him, not only on account of his
impertinent remarks, but he, moreover, stood so near him that he
several times impeded him in his rapid evolutions, and of course got
himself shoved aside in no very ceremonious way. Instead of making him
keep his distance, these rude shocks and pushes, accompanied sometimes
with hasty curses, only made him cling the closer to this king of the
game. He seemed determined to maintain his right to his place as an
onlooker, as well as any of those engaged in the game, and, if they had
tried him at an argument, he would have carried his point; or perhaps
he wished to quarrel with this spark of his jealousy and aversion, and
draw the attention of the gay crowd to himself by these means; for,
like his guardian, he knew no other pleasure but what consisted in
opposition. George took him for some impertinent student of divinity,
rather set upon a joke than anything else. He perceived a lad with
black clothes, and a methodistical face, whose countenance and eye he
disliked exceedingly, several times in his way, and that was all the
notice he took of him the first time they two met. But the next day,
and every succeeding one, the same devilish-looking youth attended him
as constantly as his shadow; was always in his way as with intention to
impede him and ever and anon his deep and malignant eye met those of
his elder brother with a glance so fierce that it sometimes startled
him.
The very next time that George was engaged at tennis, he had not struck
the ball above twice till the same intrusive being was again in his
way. The party played for considerable stakes that day, namely, a
dinner and wine at the Black Bull tavern; and George, as the hero and
head of
|
healthful
|
How many times does the word 'healthful' appear in the text?
| 0
|
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.
Matt smiles, checks the monitors of the sleek device strapped to
his back.
<b> MATT
</b> Five hours off the reservation and I
show 30% drain. My compliments to
Engineering. Except for a slight
malfunction on the nulling of the roll
axis, this jetpack is one prime piece
of thrust.
<b> MISSION CONTROL
</b><b> (ON RADIO)
</b> Engineering says thank you.
<b> MATT
</b> Tell them I still prefer my '67
Corvette though. Speaking of which did
I ever tell you the--
<b> MISSION CONTROL
</b><b> (ON RADIO)
</b> We know the Corvette story, Matt.
<b> MATT
</b> Even Engineering?
<b> MISSION CONTROL
</b> Especially engineering. We're going
to miss you, Matt.
Matt grins, fiddles with a control and propels himself away from
the Shuttle.
Stationed around the telescope are TWO ASTRONAUTS carrying out a
repair mission. They are also wearing space suits but unlike
Matt, they are not wearing Manned Maneuvering Units. SAFETY
TETHERS are the only things stopping them from floating away
into space.
<b> RYAN
</b> Comm card reboot in progress.
<b> MISSION CONTROL
</b><b> (ON RADIO)
</b> Thank you doctor. Shariff, what's your
status?
<b> SHARIFF
</b> Nearly there. Replacing battery module
A1 and C.
SHARIFF DASARI is an Indian engineer in his mid-thirties. He is
attached with tethers to a platform on one side of the Hubble.
This is his second mission into outer space.
<b> MISSION CONTROL
</b><b> (ON RADIO)
</b> Could you be more specific?
Indeterminate estimates make Houston
anxious.
<b> SHARIFF
</b>
|
comm
|
How many times does the word 'comm' appear in the text?
| 2
|
"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 make the reader appreciate the people concerned and the
strange setting in which their fate was cast.
The village of Birlstone is a small and very ancient cluster of
half-timbered cottages on the northern border of the county of Sussex.
For centuries it had remained unchanged; but within the last few years
its picturesque appearance and situation have attracted a number of
well-to-do residents, whose villas peep out from the woods around. These
woods are locally supposed to be the extreme fringe of the great Weald
forest, which thins away until it reaches the northern chalk downs.
A number of small shops have come into being to meet the wants of the
increased population; so there seems some prospect that Birlstone may
soon grow from an ancient village into a modern town. It is the centre
for a considerable area of country, since Tunbridge Wells, the nearest
place of importance, is ten or twelve miles to the eastward, over the
borders of Kent.
About half a mile from the town, standing in an old park famous for its
huge beech trees, is the ancient Manor House of Birlstone. Part of this
venerable building dates back to the time of the first crusade, when
Hugo de Capus built a fortalice in the centre of the estate, which had
been granted to him by the Red King. This was destroyed by fire in
1543, and some of its smoke-blackened corner stones were used when, in
Jacobean times, a brick country house rose upon the ruins of the feudal
castle.
The Manor House, with its many gables and its small diamond-paned
windows, was still much as the builder had left it in the early
seventeenth century. Of the double moats which had guarded its more
warlike predecessor, the outer had been allowed to dry up, and served
the humble function of a kitchen garden. The inner one was still there,
and lay forty feet in breadth, though now only a few feet in depth,
round the whole house. A small stream fed it and continued beyond it,
so that the sheet of water, though turbid, was never ditchlike or
unhealthy. The ground floor windows were within a foot of the surface of
the water.
The only approach to the house was over a drawbridge, the chains and
windlass of which had long been rusted and broken. The latest tenants
of the Manor House had, however, with characteristic energy, set this
right, and the drawbridge was not only capable of being raised, but
actually was raised every evening and lowered every morning. By thus
renewing the custom of the old feudal days the Manor House was converted
into an island during the night--a fact which had a very direct bearing
upon the mystery which was soon to engage the attention of all England.
The house had been untenanted for some years and was threatening to
moulder into a picturesque decay when the Douglases took possession of
it. This family consisted of only two individuals--John Douglas and his
wife. Douglas was a remarkable man, both in character and in person. In
age he may have been about fifty, with a strong-jawed, rugged face, a
grizzling moustache, peculiarly keen gray eyes, and a wiry, vigorous
figure which had lost nothing of the strength and activity of youth.
He was cheery and genial to all, but somewhat offhand in his manners,
giving the impression that he had seen life in social strata on some far
lower horizon than the county society of Sussex.
Yet, though looked at with some curiosity and reserve by his more
cultivated neighbours, he soon acquired a great popularity among the
villagers, subscribing handsomely to all local objects, and attending
their smoking concerts and other functions, where, having a remarkably
rich tenor voice, he was always ready to oblige with an excellent song.
He appeared to have plenty of money, which was said to have been gained
in the California gold fields, and it was clear from his own talk and
that of his wife that he had spent a part of his life in America.
The good impression which had been produced by his generosity and by
his democratic manners was increased by a reputation gained for utter
indifference to danger. Though a wretched rider, he turned out at every
meet, and took the most amazing falls in his determination to hold
his own with the best. When the vicarage caught fire he distinguished
himself also by the fearlessness with which he reentered the building
to save property, after the local fire brigade had given it up as
impossible. Thus it came about that John Douglas of the Manor House had
within five years won himself quite a reputation in Birlstone.
His wife, too, was popular with those who had made her acquaintance;
though, after the English fashion, the callers upon a stranger who
settled in the county without introductions were few and far between.
This mattered the less to her, as she was retiring by disposition, and
very much absorbed, to all appearance, in her husband and her domestic
duties. It was known that she was an English lady who had met Mr.
Douglas in London, he being at that time a widower. She was a beautiful
woman, tall, dark, and slender, some twenty years younger than her
husband; a disparity which seemed in no wise to mar the contentment of
their family life.
It was remarked sometimes, however, by those who knew them best, that
the confidence between the two did not appear to be complete, since the
wife was either very reticent about her husband's past life, or else, as
seemed more likely, was imperfectly informed about it. It had also been
noted and commented upon by a few observant people that there were signs
sometimes of some nerve-strain upon the part of Mrs. Douglas, and that
she would display acute uneasiness if her absent husband should ever
be particularly late in his return. On a quiet countryside, where all
gossip is welcome, this weakness of the lady of the Manor House did not
pass without remark, and it bulked larger upon people's memory when the
events arose which gave it a very special significance.
There was yet another individual whose residence under that roof was, it
is true, only an intermittent one, but whose presence at the time of
the strange happenings which will now be narrated brought his name
prominently before the public. This was Cecil James Barker, of Hales
Lodge, Hampstead.
Cecil Barker's tall, loose-jointed figure was a familiar one in the main
street of Birlstone village; for he was a frequent and welcome visitor
at the
|
face
|
How many times does the word 'face' appear in the text?
| 3
|
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> CONCUR, FLY YOUR NEEDLES.
</b><b>
</b><b> MAVERICK
</b><b> NEEDLES CENTER.
</b><b>
</b> CCA (V.O. filtered)
<b> ROGER. CALL THE BALL.
</b><b>
</b><b> MAVERICK
</b> Call the ball? I don't see the
ship!
<b>
</b><b>
</b><b> 20. INT. COCKPIT 117 - COUGAR'S POV
</b><b>
</b><b>
</b> BLASTS slam the airframe. Rain tattoos the canopy. A gust rolls
the Tomcat, he straightens it, A gust flips it again.
<b>
</b><b>
</b><b> 20A. MAVERICK'S POV
</b><b>
</b> The Carrier lights appear and disappear through the storm.
<b>
</b><b>
</b><b> 21. INT. COCKPIT 117 - COUGAR
</b><b>
</b><b> GOOSE
</b> (To Himself)
<b>
</b> A walk in the park, Mustang. You
with me, cat man?...Cougar...you
with me?
<b>
</b> Goose is thrown about as the wing dips, straightens, dips.
<b>
</b><b> COUGAR
</b> Help me with this one, I'm really
screwed up.
<b>
</b><b> GOOSE
</b> Bring it left. Bring it left,
You're high.
<b>
</b><b> COUGAR
</b> This is crazy!
<b>
</b><b> GOOSE
</b> What is?
<b>
</b><b> COUGAR
</b> Wait! Hell!..Something's wrong!
<b>
</b><b> GOOSE
</b> What? What is it?
<b>
</b><b> COUGAR
</b> Were upside down!
<b>
</b><b> GOOSE
</b> You're crazy. We're level.
<b>
</b><b> COUGAR
</b> Can't you feel it? I'm hanging in
my straps!
<b>
</b><b> GOOSE
</b> You're not. We're level. Look at
the instruments, we're okay!
<b>
</b><b> COUGAR
</b> They must be broken. I'm hanging in
my straps! We're inverted!
<b>
</b><b> GOOSE
</b> We're not! Trust me! We're okay.
<b>
</b><b>
</b><b> 22. FLIGHT DECK - LSO CONTROLLING 115 - MAVERICK
</b><b>
</b><b> LSO
</b><b> A LITTLE POWER...FLY THE BALL.
</b><b> LOOKING GOOD...HOLD WHAT YOU GOT.
</b><b>
</b><b>
</b><b>
</b><b> 23. MAVERICK'S F-14 - ON FINAL APPROACH.
</b><b>
</b><b>
</b><b> 24. INT. COCKPIT - MAVERICK
</b><b>
</b> He hears Cougar's chatter over the air.
<b>
</b> COUGAR (V.O. filtered)
<b> WE'RE UPSIDE DOWN! WE CAN'T LAND!
</b><b>
</b> GOOSE (V.O. filtered)
<b> WELL, WE CAN'T STAY UP HERE EITHER.
</b><b>
</b><b>
</b><b> 25. FLIGHT DECK
</b><b>
</b> Maverick's plane settles in over the ramp, suddenly, BLASTS FROM
IT'S AFTERBURNERS...it ROARS over the deck without touching and
off into the night. The LSO is shocked into comment.
<b>
</b><b>
</b><b> LSO
</b><b> WHERE THE HELL YOU GOING?
</b><b>
</b><b>
</b><b> 26. MAVERICK'S COCKPIT - (AERIAL)
</b><b>
</b><b> MAVERICK
</b><b> I...FORGOT SOMETHING.
</b><b>
</b><b> WIZARD
</b> What the hell you doing?
<b>
</b><b> MAVERICK
</b> Helping him in.
<b>
</b><b> WIZARD
</b> What makes you think we can get
back in? We don't have the fuel
for this.
<b> MAVERICK
</b> Just get me to him.
<b>
</b><b> WIZARD
</b> He's nine o'clock high. We're two
thousand pounds low!
<b>
</b><b>
</b><b> 27. DARK TURBULENT CLOU
|
airframe
|
How many times does the word 'airframe' appear in the text?
| 0
|
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 fault than hers, for I really could
_not_ converse. In fact, my attention was almost wholly absorbed in my
dinner: not from ravenous appetite, but from distress at the toughness of
the beefsteaks, and the numbness of my hands, almost palsied by their
five-hoursâ exposure to the bitter wind. I would gladly have eaten the
potatoes and let the meat alone, but having got a large piece of the
latter on to my plate, I could not be so impolite as to leave it; so,
after many awkward and unsuccessful attempts to cut it with the knife, or
tear it with the fork, or pull it asunder between them, sensible that the
awful lady was a spectator to the whole transaction, I at last
desperately grasped the knife and fork in my fists, like a child of two
years old, and fell to work with all the little strength I possessed.
But this needed some apologyâwith a feeble attempt at a laugh, I said,
âMy hands are so benumbed with the cold that I can scarcely handle my
knife and fork.â
âI daresay you would find it cold,â replied she with a cool, immutable
gravity that did not serve to reassure me.
When the ceremony was concluded, she led me into the sitting-room again,
where she rang and sent for the children.
âYou will find them not very far advanced in their attainments,â said
she, âfor I have had so little time to attend to their education myself,
and we have thought them too young for a governess till now; but I think
they are clever children, and very apt to learn, especially the little
boy; he is, I think, the flower of the flockâa generous, noble-spirited
boy, one to be led, but not driven, and remarkable for always speaking
the truth. He seems to scorn deceptionâ (this was good news). âHis
sister Mary Ann will require watching,â continued she, âbut she is a very
good girl upon the whole; though I wish her to be kept out of the nursery
as much as possible, as she is now almost six years old, and might
acquire bad habits from the nurses. I have ordered her crib to be placed
in your room, and if you will be so kind as to overlook her washing and
dressing, and take charge of her clothes, she need have nothing further
to do with the nursery maid.â
I replied I was quite willing to do so; and at that moment my young
pupils entered the apartment, with their two younger sisters. Master Tom
Bloomfield was a well-grown boy of seven, with a somewhat wiry frame,
flaxen hair, blue eyes, small turned-up nose, and fair complexion. Mary
Ann was a tall girl too, somewhat dark like her mother, but with a round
full face and a high colour in her cheeks. The second sister was Fanny,
a very pretty little girl; Mrs. Bloomfield assured me she was a
remarkably gentle child, and required encouragement: she had not learned
anything yet; but in a few days, she would be four years old, and then
she might take her first lesson in the alphabet, and be promoted to the
schoolroom. The remaining one was Harriet, a little broad, fat, merry,
playful thing of scarcely two, that I coveted more than all the restâbut
with her I had nothing to do.
I talked to my little pupils as well as I could, and tried to render
myself agreeable; but with little success I fear, for their motherâs
presence kept me under an unpleasant restraint. They, however, were
remarkably free from shyness. They seemed bold, lively children, and I
hoped I should soon be on friendly terms with themâthe little boy
especially, of whom I had heard such a favourable character from his
mamma. In Mary Ann there was a certain affected simper, and a craving
for notice, that I was sorry to observe. But her brother claimed all my
attention to himself; he stood bolt upright between me and the fire, with
his hands behind his back, talking away like an orator, occasionally
interrupting his discourse with a sharp reproof to his sisters when they
made too much noise.
âOh, Tom, what a darling you are!â exclaimed his mother. âCome and kiss
dear mamma; and then wonât you show Miss Grey your schoolroom, and your
nice new books?â
âI wonât kiss _you_, mamma; but I _will_ show Miss Grey my schoolroom,
and my new books.â
âAnd _my_ schoolroom, and _my_ new books, Tom,â said Mary Ann. âTheyâre
mine too.â
âTheyâre _mine_,â replied he decisively. âCome along, Miss GreyâIâll
escort you.â
When the room and books had been shown, with some bickerings between the
brother and sister that I did my utmost to appease or mitigate, Mary Ann
brought me her doll, and began to be very loquacious on the subject of
its fine clothes, its bed, its chest of drawers, and other appurtenances;
but Tom told her to hold her clamour, that Miss Grey might see his
rocking-horse, which, with a most important bustle, he dragged forth from
its corner into the middle of the room, loudly calling on me to attend to
it. Then, ordering his sister to hold the reins, he mounted, and made me
stand for ten minutes, watching how manfully he used his whip and spurs.
Meantime, however, I admired Mary Annâs pretty doll, and all its
possessions; and then told
|
assist
|
How many times does the word 'assist' appear in the text?
| 0
|
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, the eye
was agreeably relieved, and did not want richer furniture. There were
three other apartments, one for my wife and me, another for our two
daughters, within our own, and the third, with two beds, for the rest of
the children.
The little republic to which I gave laws, was regulated in the following
manner: by sun-rise we all assembled in our common appartment; the fire
being previously kindled by the servant. After we had saluted each
other with proper ceremony, for I always thought fit to keep up some
mechanical forms of good breeding, without which freedom ever destroys
friendship, we all bent in gratitude to that Being who gave us another
day. This duty being performed, my son and I went to pursue our usual
industry abroad, while my wife and daughters employed themselves in
providing breakfast, which was always ready at a certain time. I allowed
half an hour for this meal, and an hour for dinner; which time was taken
up in innocent mirth between my wife and daughters, and in philosophical
arguments between my son and me.
As we rose with the sun, so we never pursued our labours after it was
gone down, but returned home to the expecting family; where smiling
looks, a treat hearth, and pleasant fire, were prepared for our
reception. Nor were we without guests: sometimes farmer Flamborough, our
talkative neighbour, and often the blind piper, would pay us a visit,
and taste our gooseberry wine; for the making of which we had lost
neither the receipt nor the reputation. These harmless people had
several ways of being good company, while one played, the other would
sing some soothing ballad, Johnny Armstrong's last good night, or the
cruelty of Barbara Allen. The night was concluded in the manner we began
the morning, my youngest boys being appointed to read the lessons of
the day, and he that read loudest, distinctest, and best, was to have an
half-penny on Sunday to put in the poor's box.
When Sunday came, it was indeed a day of finery, which all my sumptuary
edicts could not restrain. How well so ever I fancied my lectures
against pride had conquered the vanity of my daughters; yet I still
found them secretly attached to all their former finery: they still
loved laces, ribbands, bugles and catgut; my wife herself retained a
passion for her crimson paduasoy, because I formerly happened to say it
became her.
The first Sunday in particular their behaviour served to mortify me: I
had desired my girls the preceding night to be drest early the next day;
for I always loved to be at church a good while before the rest of the
congregation. They punctually obeyed my directions; but when we were to
assemble in the morning at breakfast, down came my wife and daughters,
drest out in all their former splendour: their hair plaistered up with
pomatum, their faces patched to taste, their trains bundled up into an
heap behind, and rustling at every motion. I could not help smiling at
their vanity, particularly that of my wife, from whom I expected more
discretion. In this exigence, therefore, my only resource was to order
my son, with an important air, to call our coach. The girls were
amazed at the command; but I repeated it with more solemnity than
before.--'Surely, my dear, you jest,' cried my wife, 'we can walk it
perfectly well: we want no coach to carry us now.' 'You mistake, child,'
returned I, 'we do want a coach; for if we walk to church in this trim,
the very children in the parish will hoot after us.'--'Indeed,' replied
my wife, 'I always imagined that my Charles was fond of seeing his
children neat and handsome about him.'--'You may be as neat as you
please,' interrupted I, 'and I shall love you the better for it, but all
this is not neatness, but frippery. These rufflings, and pinkings,
and patchings, will only make us hated by all the wives of all our
neighbours. No, my children,' continued I, more gravely, 'those gowns
may be altered into something of a plainer cut; for finery is very
unbecoming in us, who want the means of decency. I do not know whether
such flouncing and shredding is becoming even in the rich, if we
consider, upon a moderate calculation, that the nakedness of the
indigent world may be cloathed from the trimmings of the vain.'
This remonstrance had the proper effect; they went with great composure,
that very instant, to change their dress; and the next day I had the
satisfaction of finding my daughters, at their own request employed in
cutting up their trains into Sunday waistcoats for Dick and Bill, the
two little ones, and what was still more satisfactory, the gowns seemed
improved by this curtailing.
CHAPTER 5
A new and great acquaintance introduced. What we place most
hopes upon, generally proves most fatal
At a small distance from the house my predecessor had made a seat,
overshaded by an hedge of hawthorn and honeysuckle. Here, when the
weather was fine, and our labour soon finished, we usually sate
together, to enjoy an extensive landscape, in the calm of the evening.
Here too we drank tea, which now was become an occasional banquet; and
as we had it but seldom, it diffused a new joy, the preparations for
it being made with no small share of bustle and ceremony. On these
occasions, our two little ones always read for us, and they were
regularly served after we had done. Sometimes, to give a variety to our
amusements, the girls sung to the guitar; and while they thus formed a
little concert, my wife and I would stroll down the sloping field, that
was embellished with blue bells and centaury, talk of our children with
rapture, and enjoy the breeze that wafted both health and harmony.
In this manner we began to find that every situation in life might bring
its own peculiar pleasures: every morning waked us to a repetition of
toil; but the evening repaid it with vacant hilarity.
It was about the beginning of autumn, on a holiday, for I kept such as
intervals of relaxation from labour, that I had drawn out my family to
our usual place
|
residence
|
How many times does the word 'residence' appear in the text?
| 0
|
</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.
(under breath, to Reed)
One more thing he's got.
Sue gracefully walks into the office, only taking her eyes
off of Reed to give Ben a warm hug.
<b> SUE
</b> Ben, it's been too long.
She gives Reed a polite handshake. Victor watches carefully.
Reed looks uncomfortable in her gaze. A little tongue-tied.
<b> REED
</b> You're, you've, I mean, how have you
bee--
<b> SUE
</b> Never better.
Victor sizes them up. He puts a hand on Sue's shoulder.
<b> VICTOR
</b> This isn't going to be a problem, is
it?
<b> REED
</b> Not at all.
<b> SUE
</b> Ancient history.
Victor smiles, eyeing Sue.
<b> VICTOR
</b> Good. Then you're just in time to
hear the great Reed Richards ask me
for help.
(to Reed)
You know, you made a lot of folks at
MIT feel like a junior high science
fair. So you'll excuse me if I savor
the moment.
Ben tightens. A hard beat. Reed sucks it up.
<b> REED
</b> You back this mission, and I'll sign
over a fair percentage of any
applications or --
<b> VICTOR
</b> The number's seventy-five. And it's
applications and patents.
<b> BEN
</b> What about his first born?
<b> REED
</b> (quiet)
|
round
|
How many times does the word 'round' appear in the text?
| 0
|
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 me up.
Stanley is Sally's bear. Ryan talks to it like it was alive.
it makes Sally grin.
<b> RYAN
</b> What's the matter, Stanley? Are you
nuts or something?
<b> SALLY
</b> He's not, nuts. He's lonely.
<b> (SLYLY)
</b> He needs a brother. If he had a brother
then he could go to sleep better.
Before Ryan can answer, a ravishing woman in her ..late-twenties
marches into the study. She is
<b> MARGARET RYAN
</b> English, intelligent features, in tweed suit and raincoat. A matronly
woman hovers in the doorway behind her:
<b> MARGARET
</b> We are never going to make it.
<b> RYAN
</b> Just a minute. -
<b> (TN SALLY)
</b> Daddy has to go, cricket. You and
Stanley go upstairs with Mrs. Wheeler
and go straight to sleep. When I'm
away, I'll see if I can find Stanley
a brother.
<b> SALLY
</b> Promise?
<b> RYAN
</b>
<b> CUT TO:
</b>
<b> THE ROVER
</b> pulling to a curb in driving rain at Heathrow. Red Army CHORUS
SWELLS. Leaping out, Ryan grabs luggage and races to the
driver's side. Margaret pulls his face through the window.
<b> RYAN
</b> I'm all wet.
<b> MARGARET
</b>
<b> (KISSING HIM)
</b> You're sexy when you're wet.
<b> RYAN
</b>
<b> (GRINNING)
</b> I'm gonna miss you.
<b> MARGARET
</b> Get out of here, Yank. Or Ml
tear you limb from limb.
<b> (HE STARTS)
</b> Wait! I got you these. They'Il
help you sleep on the plane.
She has a bottle of piUs in her hand. He squints at it, shaking his
head in the pouring rain:
<b> RYAN
</b> Won't do me any good ---
<b> MARGARET
</b> Jack.
<b>
|
miss
|
How many times does the word 'miss' appear in the text?
| 0
|
End of preview. Expand
in Data Studio
README.md exists but content is empty.
- Downloads last month
- 1