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"Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman."
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Mr Todd
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I have forgotten him," or<|quote|>"Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman."</|quote|>He would frequently interrupt with
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would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or<|quote|>"Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman."</|quote|>He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would
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his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or<|quote|>"Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman."</|quote|>He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why
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first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or<|quote|>"Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman."</|quote|>He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two
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more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or<|quote|>"Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman."</|quote|>He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And
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without fever, Mr Todd said, "Now I think you are well enough to see the books." At one end of the hut there was a kind of loft formed by a rough platform erected in the eaves of the roof. Mr Todd propped a ladder against it and mounted. Tony followed, still unsteady after his illness. Mr Todd sat on the platform and Tony stood at the top of the ladder looking over. There was a heap of bundles there, tied up with rag, palm leaf and raw hide. "It has been hard to keep out the worms and ants. Two are practically destroyed. But there is an oil the Indians make that is useful." He unwrapped the nearest parcel and handed down a calf-bound book. It was an early American edition of _Bleak House_. "It does not matter which we take first." "You are fond of Dickens?" "Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or<|quote|>"Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman."</|quote|>He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when
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in Guiana to look for gold. Then he took my mother. The Pie-wie women are ugly but very devoted. I have had many. Most of the men and women living in this savannah are my children. That is why they obey--for that reason and because I have the gun. My father lived to a great age. It is not twenty years since he died. He was a man of education. Can you read?" "Yes, of course." "It is not everyone who is so fortunate. I cannot." Tony laughed apologetically. "But I suppose you haven't much opportunity here." "Oh yes, that is just it. I have a _great_ many books. I will show you when you are better. Until five years ago there was an Englishman--at least a black man, but he was well educated in Georgetown. He died. He used to read to me every day until he died. You shall read to me when you are better." "I shall be delighted to." "Yes, you shall read to me," Mr Todd repeated, nodding over the calabash. During the early days of his convalescence Tony had little conversation with his host, he lay in the hammock staring up at the thatched roof and thinking about Brenda. The days, exactly twelve hours each, passed without distinction. Mr Todd retired to sleep at sundown, leaving a little lamp burning--a handwoven wick drooping from a pot of beef fat--to keep away vampire bats. The first time that Tony left the house Mr Todd took him for a little stroll around the farm. "I will show you the black man's grave," he said, leading him to a mound between the mango trees. "He was very kind. Every afternoon until he died, for two hours, he used to read to me. I think I will put up a cross--to commemorate his death and your arrival--a pretty idea. Do you believe in God?" "I suppose so. I've never really thought about it much." "I have thought about it a _great_ deal and I still do not know... Dickens did." "I suppose so." "Oh yes, it is apparent in all his books. You will see." That afternoon Mr Todd began the construction of a headpiece for the Negro's grave. He worked with a large spoke-shave in a wood so hard that it grated and rang like metal. At last, when Tony had passed six or seven consecutive nights without fever, Mr Todd said, "Now I think you are well enough to see the books." At one end of the hut there was a kind of loft formed by a rough platform erected in the eaves of the roof. Mr Todd propped a ladder against it and mounted. Tony followed, still unsteady after his illness. Mr Todd sat on the platform and Tony stood at the top of the ladder looking over. There was a heap of bundles there, tied up with rag, palm leaf and raw hide. "It has been hard to keep out the worms and ants. Two are practically destroyed. But there is an oil the Indians make that is useful." He unwrapped the nearest parcel and handed down a calf-bound book. It was an early American edition of _Bleak House_. "It does not matter which we take first." "You are fond of Dickens?" "Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or<|quote|>"Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman."</|quote|>He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no
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for the Negro's grave. He worked with a large spoke-shave in a wood so hard that it grated and rang like metal. At last, when Tony had passed six or seven consecutive nights without fever, Mr Todd said, "Now I think you are well enough to see the books." At one end of the hut there was a kind of loft formed by a rough platform erected in the eaves of the roof. Mr Todd propped a ladder against it and mounted. Tony followed, still unsteady after his illness. Mr Todd sat on the platform and Tony stood at the top of the ladder looking over. There was a heap of bundles there, tied up with rag, palm leaf and raw hide. "It has been hard to keep out the worms and ants. Two are practically destroyed. But there is an oil the Indians make that is useful." He unwrapped the nearest parcel and handed down a calf-bound book. It was an early American edition of _Bleak House_. "It does not matter which we take first." "You are fond of Dickens?" "Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or<|quote|>"Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman."</|quote|>He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read,
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A Handful Of Dust
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He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters.
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No speaker
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well. She dies, poor woman."<|quote|>He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters.</|quote|>"Now, why does she say
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"Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman."<|quote|>He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters.</|quote|>"Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean
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old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman."<|quote|>He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters.</|quote|>"Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat
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way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman."<|quote|>He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters.</|quote|>"Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough
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many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman."<|quote|>He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters.</|quote|>"Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty
|
well enough to see the books." At one end of the hut there was a kind of loft formed by a rough platform erected in the eaves of the roof. Mr Todd propped a ladder against it and mounted. Tony followed, still unsteady after his illness. Mr Todd sat on the platform and Tony stood at the top of the ladder looking over. There was a heap of bundles there, tied up with rag, palm leaf and raw hide. "It has been hard to keep out the worms and ants. Two are practically destroyed. But there is an oil the Indians make that is useful." He unwrapped the nearest parcel and handed down a calf-bound book. It was an early American edition of _Bleak House_. "It does not matter which we take first." "You are fond of Dickens?" "Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman."<|quote|>He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters.</|quote|>"Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I
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mother. The Pie-wie women are ugly but very devoted. I have had many. Most of the men and women living in this savannah are my children. That is why they obey--for that reason and because I have the gun. My father lived to a great age. It is not twenty years since he died. He was a man of education. Can you read?" "Yes, of course." "It is not everyone who is so fortunate. I cannot." Tony laughed apologetically. "But I suppose you haven't much opportunity here." "Oh yes, that is just it. I have a _great_ many books. I will show you when you are better. Until five years ago there was an Englishman--at least a black man, but he was well educated in Georgetown. He died. He used to read to me every day until he died. You shall read to me when you are better." "I shall be delighted to." "Yes, you shall read to me," Mr Todd repeated, nodding over the calabash. During the early days of his convalescence Tony had little conversation with his host, he lay in the hammock staring up at the thatched roof and thinking about Brenda. The days, exactly twelve hours each, passed without distinction. Mr Todd retired to sleep at sundown, leaving a little lamp burning--a handwoven wick drooping from a pot of beef fat--to keep away vampire bats. The first time that Tony left the house Mr Todd took him for a little stroll around the farm. "I will show you the black man's grave," he said, leading him to a mound between the mango trees. "He was very kind. Every afternoon until he died, for two hours, he used to read to me. I think I will put up a cross--to commemorate his death and your arrival--a pretty idea. Do you believe in God?" "I suppose so. I've never really thought about it much." "I have thought about it a _great_ deal and I still do not know... Dickens did." "I suppose so." "Oh yes, it is apparent in all his books. You will see." That afternoon Mr Todd began the construction of a headpiece for the Negro's grave. He worked with a large spoke-shave in a wood so hard that it grated and rang like metal. At last, when Tony had passed six or seven consecutive nights without fever, Mr Todd said, "Now I think you are well enough to see the books." At one end of the hut there was a kind of loft formed by a rough platform erected in the eaves of the roof. Mr Todd propped a ladder against it and mounted. Tony followed, still unsteady after his illness. Mr Todd sat on the platform and Tony stood at the top of the ladder looking over. There was a heap of bundles there, tied up with rag, palm leaf and raw hide. "It has been hard to keep out the worms and ants. Two are practically destroyed. But there is an oil the Indians make that is useful." He unwrapped the nearest parcel and handed down a calf-bound book. It was an early American edition of _Bleak House_. "It does not matter which we take first." "You are fond of Dickens?" "Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman."<|quote|>He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters.</|quote|>"Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you
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Todd propped a ladder against it and mounted. Tony followed, still unsteady after his illness. Mr Todd sat on the platform and Tony stood at the top of the ladder looking over. There was a heap of bundles there, tied up with rag, palm leaf and raw hide. "It has been hard to keep out the worms and ants. Two are practically destroyed. But there is an oil the Indians make that is useful." He unwrapped the nearest parcel and handed down a calf-bound book. It was an early American edition of _Bleak House_. "It does not matter which we take first." "You are fond of Dickens?" "Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman."<|quote|>He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters.</|quote|>"Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's
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A Handful Of Dust
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"Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?"
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Mr Todd
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him--but always about the characters.<|quote|>"Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?"</|quote|>He laughed loudly at all
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been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters.<|quote|>"Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?"</|quote|>He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some
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poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters.<|quote|>"Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?"</|quote|>He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments
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audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters.<|quote|>"Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?"</|quote|>He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully,
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delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters.<|quote|>"Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?"</|quote|>He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his
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sat on the platform and Tony stood at the top of the ladder looking over. There was a heap of bundles there, tied up with rag, palm leaf and raw hide. "It has been hard to keep out the worms and ants. Two are practically destroyed. But there is an oil the Indians make that is useful." He unwrapped the nearest parcel and handed down a calf-bound book. It was an early American edition of _Bleak House_. "It does not matter which we take first." "You are fond of Dickens?" "Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters.<|quote|>"Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?"</|quote|>He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My
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not twenty years since he died. He was a man of education. Can you read?" "Yes, of course." "It is not everyone who is so fortunate. I cannot." Tony laughed apologetically. "But I suppose you haven't much opportunity here." "Oh yes, that is just it. I have a _great_ many books. I will show you when you are better. Until five years ago there was an Englishman--at least a black man, but he was well educated in Georgetown. He died. He used to read to me every day until he died. You shall read to me when you are better." "I shall be delighted to." "Yes, you shall read to me," Mr Todd repeated, nodding over the calabash. During the early days of his convalescence Tony had little conversation with his host, he lay in the hammock staring up at the thatched roof and thinking about Brenda. The days, exactly twelve hours each, passed without distinction. Mr Todd retired to sleep at sundown, leaving a little lamp burning--a handwoven wick drooping from a pot of beef fat--to keep away vampire bats. The first time that Tony left the house Mr Todd took him for a little stroll around the farm. "I will show you the black man's grave," he said, leading him to a mound between the mango trees. "He was very kind. Every afternoon until he died, for two hours, he used to read to me. I think I will put up a cross--to commemorate his death and your arrival--a pretty idea. Do you believe in God?" "I suppose so. I've never really thought about it much." "I have thought about it a _great_ deal and I still do not know... Dickens did." "I suppose so." "Oh yes, it is apparent in all his books. You will see." That afternoon Mr Todd began the construction of a headpiece for the Negro's grave. He worked with a large spoke-shave in a wood so hard that it grated and rang like metal. At last, when Tony had passed six or seven consecutive nights without fever, Mr Todd said, "Now I think you are well enough to see the books." At one end of the hut there was a kind of loft formed by a rough platform erected in the eaves of the roof. Mr Todd propped a ladder against it and mounted. Tony followed, still unsteady after his illness. Mr Todd sat on the platform and Tony stood at the top of the ladder looking over. There was a heap of bundles there, tied up with rag, palm leaf and raw hide. "It has been hard to keep out the worms and ants. Two are practically destroyed. But there is an oil the Indians make that is useful." He unwrapped the nearest parcel and handed down a calf-bound book. It was an early American edition of _Bleak House_. "It does not matter which we take first." "You are fond of Dickens?" "Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters.<|quote|>"Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?"</|quote|>He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was
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a _great_ deal and I still do not know... Dickens did." "I suppose so." "Oh yes, it is apparent in all his books. You will see." That afternoon Mr Todd began the construction of a headpiece for the Negro's grave. He worked with a large spoke-shave in a wood so hard that it grated and rang like metal. At last, when Tony had passed six or seven consecutive nights without fever, Mr Todd said, "Now I think you are well enough to see the books." At one end of the hut there was a kind of loft formed by a rough platform erected in the eaves of the roof. Mr Todd propped a ladder against it and mounted. Tony followed, still unsteady after his illness. Mr Todd sat on the platform and Tony stood at the top of the ladder looking over. There was a heap of bundles there, tied up with rag, palm leaf and raw hide. "It has been hard to keep out the worms and ants. Two are practically destroyed. But there is an oil the Indians make that is useful." He unwrapped the nearest parcel and handed down a calf-bound book. It was an early American edition of _Bleak House_. "It does not matter which we take first." "You are fond of Dickens?" "Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters.<|quote|>"Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?"</|quote|>He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has
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A Handful Of Dust
|
He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple.
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No speaker
|
of something in that paper?"<|quote|>He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple.</|quote|>"I think the Dedlock is
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heat of the fire or of something in that paper?"<|quote|>He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple.</|quote|>"I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or,
|
Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?"<|quote|>He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple.</|quote|>"I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than
|
character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?"<|quote|>He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple.</|quote|>"I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all
|
had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?"<|quote|>He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple.</|quote|>"I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able
|
and raw hide. "It has been hard to keep out the worms and ants. Two are practically destroyed. But there is an oil the Indians make that is useful." He unwrapped the nearest parcel and handed down a calf-bound book. It was an early American edition of _Bleak House_. "It does not matter which we take first." "You are fond of Dickens?" "Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?"<|quote|>He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple.</|quote|>"I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of
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Tony laughed apologetically. "But I suppose you haven't much opportunity here." "Oh yes, that is just it. I have a _great_ many books. I will show you when you are better. Until five years ago there was an Englishman--at least a black man, but he was well educated in Georgetown. He died. He used to read to me every day until he died. You shall read to me when you are better." "I shall be delighted to." "Yes, you shall read to me," Mr Todd repeated, nodding over the calabash. During the early days of his convalescence Tony had little conversation with his host, he lay in the hammock staring up at the thatched roof and thinking about Brenda. The days, exactly twelve hours each, passed without distinction. Mr Todd retired to sleep at sundown, leaving a little lamp burning--a handwoven wick drooping from a pot of beef fat--to keep away vampire bats. The first time that Tony left the house Mr Todd took him for a little stroll around the farm. "I will show you the black man's grave," he said, leading him to a mound between the mango trees. "He was very kind. Every afternoon until he died, for two hours, he used to read to me. I think I will put up a cross--to commemorate his death and your arrival--a pretty idea. Do you believe in God?" "I suppose so. I've never really thought about it much." "I have thought about it a _great_ deal and I still do not know... Dickens did." "I suppose so." "Oh yes, it is apparent in all his books. You will see." That afternoon Mr Todd began the construction of a headpiece for the Negro's grave. He worked with a large spoke-shave in a wood so hard that it grated and rang like metal. At last, when Tony had passed six or seven consecutive nights without fever, Mr Todd said, "Now I think you are well enough to see the books." At one end of the hut there was a kind of loft formed by a rough platform erected in the eaves of the roof. Mr Todd propped a ladder against it and mounted. Tony followed, still unsteady after his illness. Mr Todd sat on the platform and Tony stood at the top of the ladder looking over. There was a heap of bundles there, tied up with rag, palm leaf and raw hide. "It has been hard to keep out the worms and ants. Two are practically destroyed. But there is an oil the Indians make that is useful." He unwrapped the nearest parcel and handed down a calf-bound book. It was an early American edition of _Bleak House_. "It does not matter which we take first." "You are fond of Dickens?" "Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?"<|quote|>He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple.</|quote|>"I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding
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all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?"<|quote|>He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple.</|quote|>"I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You
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A Handful Of Dust
|
"I think the Dedlock is a very proud man,"
|
Mr Todd
|
the story were usually simple.<|quote|>"I think the Dedlock is a very proud man,"</|quote|>or, "Mrs Jellyby does not
|
his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple.<|quote|>"I think the Dedlock is a very proud man,"</|quote|>or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her
|
jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple.<|quote|>"I think the Dedlock is a very proud man,"</|quote|>or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is
|
the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple.<|quote|>"I think the Dedlock is a very proud man,"</|quote|>or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were
|
the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple.<|quote|>"I think the Dedlock is a very proud man,"</|quote|>or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said
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first." "You are fond of Dickens?" "Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple.<|quote|>"I think the Dedlock is a very proud man,"</|quote|>or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice
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to me every day until he died. You shall read to me when you are better." "I shall be delighted to." "Yes, you shall read to me," Mr Todd repeated, nodding over the calabash. During the early days of his convalescence Tony had little conversation with his host, he lay in the hammock staring up at the thatched roof and thinking about Brenda. The days, exactly twelve hours each, passed without distinction. Mr Todd retired to sleep at sundown, leaving a little lamp burning--a handwoven wick drooping from a pot of beef fat--to keep away vampire bats. The first time that Tony left the house Mr Todd took him for a little stroll around the farm. "I will show you the black man's grave," he said, leading him to a mound between the mango trees. "He was very kind. Every afternoon until he died, for two hours, he used to read to me. I think I will put up a cross--to commemorate his death and your arrival--a pretty idea. Do you believe in God?" "I suppose so. I've never really thought about it much." "I have thought about it a _great_ deal and I still do not know... Dickens did." "I suppose so." "Oh yes, it is apparent in all his books. You will see." That afternoon Mr Todd began the construction of a headpiece for the Negro's grave. He worked with a large spoke-shave in a wood so hard that it grated and rang like metal. At last, when Tony had passed six or seven consecutive nights without fever, Mr Todd said, "Now I think you are well enough to see the books." At one end of the hut there was a kind of loft formed by a rough platform erected in the eaves of the roof. Mr Todd propped a ladder against it and mounted. Tony followed, still unsteady after his illness. Mr Todd sat on the platform and Tony stood at the top of the ladder looking over. There was a heap of bundles there, tied up with rag, palm leaf and raw hide. "It has been hard to keep out the worms and ants. Two are practically destroyed. But there is an oil the Indians make that is useful." He unwrapped the nearest parcel and handed down a calf-bound book. It was an early American edition of _Bleak House_. "It does not matter which we take first." "You are fond of Dickens?" "Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple.<|quote|>"I think the Dedlock is a very proud man,"</|quote|>or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the
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in all his books. You will see." That afternoon Mr Todd began the construction of a headpiece for the Negro's grave. He worked with a large spoke-shave in a wood so hard that it grated and rang like metal. At last, when Tony had passed six or seven consecutive nights without fever, Mr Todd said, "Now I think you are well enough to see the books." At one end of the hut there was a kind of loft formed by a rough platform erected in the eaves of the roof. Mr Todd propped a ladder against it and mounted. Tony followed, still unsteady after his illness. Mr Todd sat on the platform and Tony stood at the top of the ladder looking over. There was a heap of bundles there, tied up with rag, palm leaf and raw hide. "It has been hard to keep out the worms and ants. Two are practically destroyed. But there is an oil the Indians make that is useful." He unwrapped the nearest parcel and handed down a calf-bound book. It was an early American edition of _Bleak House_. "It does not matter which we take first." "You are fond of Dickens?" "Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple.<|quote|>"I think the Dedlock is a very proud man,"</|quote|>or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four
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A Handful Of Dust
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or,
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No speaker
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is a very proud man,"<|quote|>or,</|quote|>"Mrs Jellyby does not take
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simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man,"<|quote|>or,</|quote|>"Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children."
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humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man,"<|quote|>or,</|quote|>"Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost
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not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man,"<|quote|>or,</|quote|>"Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in
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supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man,"<|quote|>or,</|quote|>"Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr
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course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man,"<|quote|>or,</|quote|>"Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during
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read to me when you are better." "I shall be delighted to." "Yes, you shall read to me," Mr Todd repeated, nodding over the calabash. During the early days of his convalescence Tony had little conversation with his host, he lay in the hammock staring up at the thatched roof and thinking about Brenda. The days, exactly twelve hours each, passed without distinction. Mr Todd retired to sleep at sundown, leaving a little lamp burning--a handwoven wick drooping from a pot of beef fat--to keep away vampire bats. The first time that Tony left the house Mr Todd took him for a little stroll around the farm. "I will show you the black man's grave," he said, leading him to a mound between the mango trees. "He was very kind. Every afternoon until he died, for two hours, he used to read to me. I think I will put up a cross--to commemorate his death and your arrival--a pretty idea. Do you believe in God?" "I suppose so. I've never really thought about it much." "I have thought about it a _great_ deal and I still do not know... Dickens did." "I suppose so." "Oh yes, it is apparent in all his books. You will see." That afternoon Mr Todd began the construction of a headpiece for the Negro's grave. He worked with a large spoke-shave in a wood so hard that it grated and rang like metal. At last, when Tony had passed six or seven consecutive nights without fever, Mr Todd said, "Now I think you are well enough to see the books." At one end of the hut there was a kind of loft formed by a rough platform erected in the eaves of the roof. Mr Todd propped a ladder against it and mounted. Tony followed, still unsteady after his illness. Mr Todd sat on the platform and Tony stood at the top of the ladder looking over. There was a heap of bundles there, tied up with rag, palm leaf and raw hide. "It has been hard to keep out the worms and ants. Two are practically destroyed. But there is an oil the Indians make that is useful." He unwrapped the nearest parcel and handed down a calf-bound book. It was an early American edition of _Bleak House_. "It does not matter which we take first." "You are fond of Dickens?" "Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man,"<|quote|>or,</|quote|>"Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages
|
more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man,"<|quote|>or,</|quote|>"Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make
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A Handful Of Dust
|
"Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children."
|
Mr Todd
|
a very proud man," or,<|quote|>"Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children."</|quote|>Tony enjoyed the readings almost
|
"I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or,<|quote|>"Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children."</|quote|>Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did.
|
to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or,<|quote|>"Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children."</|quote|>Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at
|
concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or,<|quote|>"Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children."</|quote|>Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's
|
But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or,<|quote|>"Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children."</|quote|>Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have
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More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or,<|quote|>"Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children."</|quote|>Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host
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to me when you are better." "I shall be delighted to." "Yes, you shall read to me," Mr Todd repeated, nodding over the calabash. During the early days of his convalescence Tony had little conversation with his host, he lay in the hammock staring up at the thatched roof and thinking about Brenda. The days, exactly twelve hours each, passed without distinction. Mr Todd retired to sleep at sundown, leaving a little lamp burning--a handwoven wick drooping from a pot of beef fat--to keep away vampire bats. The first time that Tony left the house Mr Todd took him for a little stroll around the farm. "I will show you the black man's grave," he said, leading him to a mound between the mango trees. "He was very kind. Every afternoon until he died, for two hours, he used to read to me. I think I will put up a cross--to commemorate his death and your arrival--a pretty idea. Do you believe in God?" "I suppose so. I've never really thought about it much." "I have thought about it a _great_ deal and I still do not know... Dickens did." "I suppose so." "Oh yes, it is apparent in all his books. You will see." That afternoon Mr Todd began the construction of a headpiece for the Negro's grave. He worked with a large spoke-shave in a wood so hard that it grated and rang like metal. At last, when Tony had passed six or seven consecutive nights without fever, Mr Todd said, "Now I think you are well enough to see the books." At one end of the hut there was a kind of loft formed by a rough platform erected in the eaves of the roof. Mr Todd propped a ladder against it and mounted. Tony followed, still unsteady after his illness. Mr Todd sat on the platform and Tony stood at the top of the ladder looking over. There was a heap of bundles there, tied up with rag, palm leaf and raw hide. "It has been hard to keep out the worms and ants. Two are practically destroyed. But there is an oil the Indians make that is useful." He unwrapped the nearest parcel and handed down a calf-bound book. It was an early American edition of _Bleak House_. "It does not matter which we take first." "You are fond of Dickens?" "Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or,<|quote|>"Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children."</|quote|>Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil
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a ladder against it and mounted. Tony followed, still unsteady after his illness. Mr Todd sat on the platform and Tony stood at the top of the ladder looking over. There was a heap of bundles there, tied up with rag, palm leaf and raw hide. "It has been hard to keep out the worms and ants. Two are practically destroyed. But there is an oil the Indians make that is useful." He unwrapped the nearest parcel and handed down a calf-bound book. It was an early American edition of _Bleak House_. "It does not matter which we take first." "You are fond of Dickens?" "Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or,<|quote|>"Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children."</|quote|>Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said,
|
No speaker
|
enough care of her children."<|quote|>Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said,</|quote|>"You read beautifully, with a
|
"Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children."<|quote|>Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said,</|quote|>"You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the
|
times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children."<|quote|>Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said,</|quote|>"You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter.
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say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children."<|quote|>Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said,</|quote|>"You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the
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sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children."<|quote|>Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said,</|quote|>"You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening
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only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children."<|quote|>Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said,</|quote|>"You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a
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to." "Yes, you shall read to me," Mr Todd repeated, nodding over the calabash. During the early days of his convalescence Tony had little conversation with his host, he lay in the hammock staring up at the thatched roof and thinking about Brenda. The days, exactly twelve hours each, passed without distinction. Mr Todd retired to sleep at sundown, leaving a little lamp burning--a handwoven wick drooping from a pot of beef fat--to keep away vampire bats. The first time that Tony left the house Mr Todd took him for a little stroll around the farm. "I will show you the black man's grave," he said, leading him to a mound between the mango trees. "He was very kind. Every afternoon until he died, for two hours, he used to read to me. I think I will put up a cross--to commemorate his death and your arrival--a pretty idea. Do you believe in God?" "I suppose so. I've never really thought about it much." "I have thought about it a _great_ deal and I still do not know... Dickens did." "I suppose so." "Oh yes, it is apparent in all his books. You will see." That afternoon Mr Todd began the construction of a headpiece for the Negro's grave. He worked with a large spoke-shave in a wood so hard that it grated and rang like metal. At last, when Tony had passed six or seven consecutive nights without fever, Mr Todd said, "Now I think you are well enough to see the books." At one end of the hut there was a kind of loft formed by a rough platform erected in the eaves of the roof. Mr Todd propped a ladder against it and mounted. Tony followed, still unsteady after his illness. Mr Todd sat on the platform and Tony stood at the top of the ladder looking over. There was a heap of bundles there, tied up with rag, palm leaf and raw hide. "It has been hard to keep out the worms and ants. Two are practically destroyed. But there is an oil the Indians make that is useful." He unwrapped the nearest parcel and handed down a calf-bound book. It was an early American edition of _Bleak House_. "It does not matter which we take first." "You are fond of Dickens?" "Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children."<|quote|>Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said,</|quote|>"You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish
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of bundles there, tied up with rag, palm leaf and raw hide. "It has been hard to keep out the worms and ants. Two are practically destroyed. But there is an oil the Indians make that is useful." He unwrapped the nearest parcel and handed down a calf-bound book. It was an early American edition of _Bleak House_. "It does not matter which we take first." "You are fond of Dickens?" "Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children."<|quote|>Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said,</|quote|>"You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him
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A Handful Of Dust
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"You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again."
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Mr Todd
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day the old man said,<|quote|>"You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again."</|quote|>And always at the end
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the end of the first day the old man said,<|quote|>"You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again."</|quote|>And always at the end of a session he thanked
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beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said,<|quote|>"You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again."</|quote|>And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of
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in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said,<|quote|>"You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again."</|quote|>And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these
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when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said,<|quote|>"You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again."</|quote|>And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come
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I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said,<|quote|>"You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again."</|quote|>And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now."
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Tony had little conversation with his host, he lay in the hammock staring up at the thatched roof and thinking about Brenda. The days, exactly twelve hours each, passed without distinction. Mr Todd retired to sleep at sundown, leaving a little lamp burning--a handwoven wick drooping from a pot of beef fat--to keep away vampire bats. The first time that Tony left the house Mr Todd took him for a little stroll around the farm. "I will show you the black man's grave," he said, leading him to a mound between the mango trees. "He was very kind. Every afternoon until he died, for two hours, he used to read to me. I think I will put up a cross--to commemorate his death and your arrival--a pretty idea. Do you believe in God?" "I suppose so. I've never really thought about it much." "I have thought about it a _great_ deal and I still do not know... Dickens did." "I suppose so." "Oh yes, it is apparent in all his books. You will see." That afternoon Mr Todd began the construction of a headpiece for the Negro's grave. He worked with a large spoke-shave in a wood so hard that it grated and rang like metal. At last, when Tony had passed six or seven consecutive nights without fever, Mr Todd said, "Now I think you are well enough to see the books." At one end of the hut there was a kind of loft formed by a rough platform erected in the eaves of the roof. Mr Todd propped a ladder against it and mounted. Tony followed, still unsteady after his illness. Mr Todd sat on the platform and Tony stood at the top of the ladder looking over. There was a heap of bundles there, tied up with rag, palm leaf and raw hide. "It has been hard to keep out the worms and ants. Two are practically destroyed. But there is an oil the Indians make that is useful." He unwrapped the nearest parcel and handed down a calf-bound book. It was an early American edition of _Bleak House_. "It does not matter which we take first." "You are fond of Dickens?" "Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said,<|quote|>"You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again."</|quote|>And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it:
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was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said,<|quote|>"You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again."</|quote|>And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was
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A Handful Of Dust
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And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously.
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No speaker
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my father were here again."<|quote|>And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously.</|quote|>"I enjoyed that _very_ much.
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It is almost as though my father were here again."<|quote|>And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously.</|quote|>"I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing
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of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again."<|quote|>And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously.</|quote|>"I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong
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two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again."<|quote|>And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously.</|quote|>"I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that
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woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again."<|quote|>And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously.</|quote|>"I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already
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so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again."<|quote|>And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously.</|quote|>"I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak
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hours each, passed without distinction. Mr Todd retired to sleep at sundown, leaving a little lamp burning--a handwoven wick drooping from a pot of beef fat--to keep away vampire bats. The first time that Tony left the house Mr Todd took him for a little stroll around the farm. "I will show you the black man's grave," he said, leading him to a mound between the mango trees. "He was very kind. Every afternoon until he died, for two hours, he used to read to me. I think I will put up a cross--to commemorate his death and your arrival--a pretty idea. Do you believe in God?" "I suppose so. I've never really thought about it much." "I have thought about it a _great_ deal and I still do not know... Dickens did." "I suppose so." "Oh yes, it is apparent in all his books. You will see." That afternoon Mr Todd began the construction of a headpiece for the Negro's grave. He worked with a large spoke-shave in a wood so hard that it grated and rang like metal. At last, when Tony had passed six or seven consecutive nights without fever, Mr Todd said, "Now I think you are well enough to see the books." At one end of the hut there was a kind of loft formed by a rough platform erected in the eaves of the roof. Mr Todd propped a ladder against it and mounted. Tony followed, still unsteady after his illness. Mr Todd sat on the platform and Tony stood at the top of the ladder looking over. There was a heap of bundles there, tied up with rag, palm leaf and raw hide. "It has been hard to keep out the worms and ants. Two are practically destroyed. But there is an oil the Indians make that is useful." He unwrapped the nearest parcel and handed down a calf-bound book. It was an early American edition of _Bleak House_. "It does not matter which we take first." "You are fond of Dickens?" "Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again."<|quote|>And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously.</|quote|>"I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I
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they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again."<|quote|>And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously.</|quote|>"I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them
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A Handful Of Dust
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"I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well."
|
Mr Todd
|
he thanked his guest courteously.<|quote|>"I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well."</|quote|>By the time that they
|
the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously.<|quote|>"I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well."</|quote|>By the time that they were in the second volume,
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At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously.<|quote|>"I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well."</|quote|>By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility
|
the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously.<|quote|>"I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well."</|quote|>By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it
|
about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously.<|quote|>"I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well."</|quote|>By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How
|
here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously.<|quote|>"I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well."</|quote|>By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go."
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a little lamp burning--a handwoven wick drooping from a pot of beef fat--to keep away vampire bats. The first time that Tony left the house Mr Todd took him for a little stroll around the farm. "I will show you the black man's grave," he said, leading him to a mound between the mango trees. "He was very kind. Every afternoon until he died, for two hours, he used to read to me. I think I will put up a cross--to commemorate his death and your arrival--a pretty idea. Do you believe in God?" "I suppose so. I've never really thought about it much." "I have thought about it a _great_ deal and I still do not know... Dickens did." "I suppose so." "Oh yes, it is apparent in all his books. You will see." That afternoon Mr Todd began the construction of a headpiece for the Negro's grave. He worked with a large spoke-shave in a wood so hard that it grated and rang like metal. At last, when Tony had passed six or seven consecutive nights without fever, Mr Todd said, "Now I think you are well enough to see the books." At one end of the hut there was a kind of loft formed by a rough platform erected in the eaves of the roof. Mr Todd propped a ladder against it and mounted. Tony followed, still unsteady after his illness. Mr Todd sat on the platform and Tony stood at the top of the ladder looking over. There was a heap of bundles there, tied up with rag, palm leaf and raw hide. "It has been hard to keep out the worms and ants. Two are practically destroyed. But there is an oil the Indians make that is useful." He unwrapped the nearest parcel and handed down a calf-bound book. It was an early American edition of _Bleak House_. "It does not matter which we take first." "You are fond of Dickens?" "Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously.<|quote|>"I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well."</|quote|>By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my
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you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously.<|quote|>"I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well."</|quote|>By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he
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A Handful Of Dust
|
By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said,
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No speaker
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will all turn out well."<|quote|>By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said,</|quote|>"We still have a lot
|
I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well."<|quote|>By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said,</|quote|>"We still have a lot to get through. I hope
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And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well."<|quote|>By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said,</|quote|>"We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in
|
Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well."<|quote|>By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said,</|quote|>"We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far
|
they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well."<|quote|>By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said,</|quote|>"We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting
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"they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well."<|quote|>By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said,</|quote|>"We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed
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the house Mr Todd took him for a little stroll around the farm. "I will show you the black man's grave," he said, leading him to a mound between the mango trees. "He was very kind. Every afternoon until he died, for two hours, he used to read to me. I think I will put up a cross--to commemorate his death and your arrival--a pretty idea. Do you believe in God?" "I suppose so. I've never really thought about it much." "I have thought about it a _great_ deal and I still do not know... Dickens did." "I suppose so." "Oh yes, it is apparent in all his books. You will see." That afternoon Mr Todd began the construction of a headpiece for the Negro's grave. He worked with a large spoke-shave in a wood so hard that it grated and rang like metal. At last, when Tony had passed six or seven consecutive nights without fever, Mr Todd said, "Now I think you are well enough to see the books." At one end of the hut there was a kind of loft formed by a rough platform erected in the eaves of the roof. Mr Todd propped a ladder against it and mounted. Tony followed, still unsteady after his illness. Mr Todd sat on the platform and Tony stood at the top of the ladder looking over. There was a heap of bundles there, tied up with rag, palm leaf and raw hide. "It has been hard to keep out the worms and ants. Two are practically destroyed. But there is an oil the Indians make that is useful." He unwrapped the nearest parcel and handed down a calf-bound book. It was an early American edition of _Bleak House_. "It does not matter which we take first." "You are fond of Dickens?" "Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well."<|quote|>By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said,</|quote|>"We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone
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He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well."<|quote|>By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said,</|quote|>"We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but
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A Handful Of Dust
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"We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go."
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Tony Last
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to be read, Tony said,<|quote|>"We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go."</|quote|>"Oh yes," said Mr Todd.
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of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said,<|quote|>"We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go."</|quote|>"Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about
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more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said,<|quote|>"We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go."</|quote|>"Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony
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was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said,<|quote|>"We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go."</|quote|>"Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you
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down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said,<|quote|>"We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go."</|quote|>"Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he
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her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said,<|quote|>"We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go."</|quote|>"Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they
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thought about it a _great_ deal and I still do not know... Dickens did." "I suppose so." "Oh yes, it is apparent in all his books. You will see." That afternoon Mr Todd began the construction of a headpiece for the Negro's grave. He worked with a large spoke-shave in a wood so hard that it grated and rang like metal. At last, when Tony had passed six or seven consecutive nights without fever, Mr Todd said, "Now I think you are well enough to see the books." At one end of the hut there was a kind of loft formed by a rough platform erected in the eaves of the roof. Mr Todd propped a ladder against it and mounted. Tony followed, still unsteady after his illness. Mr Todd sat on the platform and Tony stood at the top of the ladder looking over. There was a heap of bundles there, tied up with rag, palm leaf and raw hide. "It has been hard to keep out the worms and ants. Two are practically destroyed. But there is an oil the Indians make that is useful." He unwrapped the nearest parcel and handed down a calf-bound book. It was an early American edition of _Bleak House_. "It does not matter which we take first." "You are fond of Dickens?" "Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said,<|quote|>"We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go."</|quote|>"Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need
|
the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said,<|quote|>"We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go."</|quote|>"Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize,
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"Oh yes,"
|
Mr Todd
|
finish it before I go."<|quote|>"Oh yes,"</|quote|>said Mr Todd. "Do not
|
I shall be able to finish it before I go."<|quote|>"Oh yes,"</|quote|>said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You
|
But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go."<|quote|>"Oh yes,"</|quote|>said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the
|
that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go."<|quote|>"Oh yes,"</|quote|>said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I
|
very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go."<|quote|>"Oh yes,"</|quote|>said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..."
|
fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go."<|quote|>"Oh yes,"</|quote|>said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him
|
is apparent in all his books. You will see." That afternoon Mr Todd began the construction of a headpiece for the Negro's grave. He worked with a large spoke-shave in a wood so hard that it grated and rang like metal. At last, when Tony had passed six or seven consecutive nights without fever, Mr Todd said, "Now I think you are well enough to see the books." At one end of the hut there was a kind of loft formed by a rough platform erected in the eaves of the roof. Mr Todd propped a ladder against it and mounted. Tony followed, still unsteady after his illness. Mr Todd sat on the platform and Tony stood at the top of the ladder looking over. There was a heap of bundles there, tied up with rag, palm leaf and raw hide. "It has been hard to keep out the worms and ants. Two are practically destroyed. But there is an oil the Indians make that is useful." He unwrapped the nearest parcel and handed down a calf-bound book. It was an early American edition of _Bleak House_. "It does not matter which we take first." "You are fond of Dickens?" "Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go."<|quote|>"Oh yes,"</|quote|>said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another
|
opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go."<|quote|>"Oh yes,"</|quote|>said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
said Mr Todd.
|
No speaker
|
before I go." "Oh yes,"<|quote|>said Mr Todd.</|quote|>"Do not disturb yourself about
|
be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes,"<|quote|>said Mr Todd.</|quote|>"Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time
|
Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes,"<|quote|>said Mr Todd.</|quote|>"Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know,
|
were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes,"<|quote|>said Mr Todd.</|quote|>"Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able
|
man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes,"<|quote|>said Mr Todd.</|quote|>"Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the
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his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes,"<|quote|>said Mr Todd.</|quote|>"Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then
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in all his books. You will see." That afternoon Mr Todd began the construction of a headpiece for the Negro's grave. He worked with a large spoke-shave in a wood so hard that it grated and rang like metal. At last, when Tony had passed six or seven consecutive nights without fever, Mr Todd said, "Now I think you are well enough to see the books." At one end of the hut there was a kind of loft formed by a rough platform erected in the eaves of the roof. Mr Todd propped a ladder against it and mounted. Tony followed, still unsteady after his illness. Mr Todd sat on the platform and Tony stood at the top of the ladder looking over. There was a heap of bundles there, tied up with rag, palm leaf and raw hide. "It has been hard to keep out the worms and ants. Two are practically destroyed. But there is an oil the Indians make that is useful." He unwrapped the nearest parcel and handed down a calf-bound book. It was an early American edition of _Bleak House_. "It does not matter which we take first." "You are fond of Dickens?" "Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes,"<|quote|>said Mr Todd.</|quote|>"Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read
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his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes,"<|quote|>said Mr Todd.</|quote|>"Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly
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A Handful Of Dust
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"Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend."
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Mr Todd
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"Oh yes," said Mr Todd.<|quote|>"Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend."</|quote|>For the first time Tony
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finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd.<|quote|>"Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend."</|quote|>For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in
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and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd.<|quote|>"Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend."</|quote|>For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to
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second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd.<|quote|>"Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend."</|quote|>For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able
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Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd.<|quote|>"Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend."</|quote|>For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive
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Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd.<|quote|>"Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend."</|quote|>For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague
|
books. You will see." That afternoon Mr Todd began the construction of a headpiece for the Negro's grave. He worked with a large spoke-shave in a wood so hard that it grated and rang like metal. At last, when Tony had passed six or seven consecutive nights without fever, Mr Todd said, "Now I think you are well enough to see the books." At one end of the hut there was a kind of loft formed by a rough platform erected in the eaves of the roof. Mr Todd propped a ladder against it and mounted. Tony followed, still unsteady after his illness. Mr Todd sat on the platform and Tony stood at the top of the ladder looking over. There was a heap of bundles there, tied up with rag, palm leaf and raw hide. "It has been hard to keep out the worms and ants. Two are practically destroyed. But there is an oil the Indians make that is useful." He unwrapped the nearest parcel and handed down a calf-bound book. It was an early American edition of _Bleak House_. "It does not matter which we take first." "You are fond of Dickens?" "Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd.<|quote|>"Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend."</|quote|>For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd
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story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd.<|quote|>"Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend."</|quote|>For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went
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A Handful Of Dust
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For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject.
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No speaker
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to finish it, my friend."<|quote|>For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject.</|quote|>"You know, Mr Todd, the
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that. You will have time to finish it, my friend."<|quote|>For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject.</|quote|>"You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I
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of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend."<|quote|>For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject.</|quote|>"You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall
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Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend."<|quote|>For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject.</|quote|>"You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens.
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much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend."<|quote|>For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject.</|quote|>"You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There
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fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend."<|quote|>For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject.</|quote|>"You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles
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the Negro's grave. He worked with a large spoke-shave in a wood so hard that it grated and rang like metal. At last, when Tony had passed six or seven consecutive nights without fever, Mr Todd said, "Now I think you are well enough to see the books." At one end of the hut there was a kind of loft formed by a rough platform erected in the eaves of the roof. Mr Todd propped a ladder against it and mounted. Tony followed, still unsteady after his illness. Mr Todd sat on the platform and Tony stood at the top of the ladder looking over. There was a heap of bundles there, tied up with rag, palm leaf and raw hide. "It has been hard to keep out the worms and ants. Two are practically destroyed. But there is an oil the Indians make that is useful." He unwrapped the nearest parcel and handed down a calf-bound book. It was an early American edition of _Bleak House_. "It does not matter which we take first." "You are fond of Dickens?" "Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend."<|quote|>For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject.</|quote|>"You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon
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the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend."<|quote|>For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject.</|quote|>"You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to
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A Handful Of Dust
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"You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long."
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Tony Last
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sundown, Tony renewed the subject.<|quote|>"You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long."</|quote|>Mr Todd bent over the
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dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject.<|quote|>"You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long."</|quote|>Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine,
|
Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject.<|quote|>"You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long."</|quote|>Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more
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seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject.<|quote|>"You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long."</|quote|>Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes,"
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almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject.<|quote|>"You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long."</|quote|>Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey
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yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject.<|quote|>"You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long."</|quote|>Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last,
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fever, Mr Todd said, "Now I think you are well enough to see the books." At one end of the hut there was a kind of loft formed by a rough platform erected in the eaves of the roof. Mr Todd propped a ladder against it and mounted. Tony followed, still unsteady after his illness. Mr Todd sat on the platform and Tony stood at the top of the ladder looking over. There was a heap of bundles there, tied up with rag, palm leaf and raw hide. "It has been hard to keep out the worms and ants. Two are practically destroyed. But there is an oil the Indians make that is useful." He unwrapped the nearest parcel and handed down a calf-bound book. It was an early American edition of _Bleak House_. "It does not matter which we take first." "You are fond of Dickens?" "Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject.<|quote|>"You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long."</|quote|>Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where
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concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject.<|quote|>"You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long."</|quote|>Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and
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A Handful Of Dust
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Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply.
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No speaker
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your hospitality far too long."<|quote|>Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply.</|quote|>"How soon do you think
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have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long."<|quote|>Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply.</|quote|>"How soon do you think I shall be able to
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manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long."<|quote|>Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply.</|quote|>"How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is
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have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long."<|quote|>Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply.</|quote|>"How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all
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extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long."<|quote|>Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply.</|quote|>"How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to
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the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long."<|quote|>Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply.</|quote|>"How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It
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a rough platform erected in the eaves of the roof. Mr Todd propped a ladder against it and mounted. Tony followed, still unsteady after his illness. Mr Todd sat on the platform and Tony stood at the top of the ladder looking over. There was a heap of bundles there, tied up with rag, palm leaf and raw hide. "It has been hard to keep out the worms and ants. Two are practically destroyed. But there is an oil the Indians make that is useful." He unwrapped the nearest parcel and handed down a calf-bound book. It was an early American edition of _Bleak House_. "It does not matter which we take first." "You are fond of Dickens?" "Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long."<|quote|>Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply.</|quote|>"How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_
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at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long."<|quote|>Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply.</|quote|>"How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James
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A Handful Of Dust
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"How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..."
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Tony Last
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farine, but made no reply.<|quote|>"How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..."</|quote|>"My friend, any kindness I
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the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply.<|quote|>"How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..."</|quote|>"My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply
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just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply.<|quote|>"How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..."</|quote|>"My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black
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it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply.<|quote|>"How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..."</|quote|>"My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There
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well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply.<|quote|>"How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..."</|quote|>"My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his
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though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply.<|quote|>"How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..."</|quote|>"My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I
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ladder against it and mounted. Tony followed, still unsteady after his illness. Mr Todd sat on the platform and Tony stood at the top of the ladder looking over. There was a heap of bundles there, tied up with rag, palm leaf and raw hide. "It has been hard to keep out the worms and ants. Two are practically destroyed. But there is an oil the Indians make that is useful." He unwrapped the nearest parcel and handed down a calf-bound book. It was an early American edition of _Bleak House_. "It does not matter which we take first." "You are fond of Dickens?" "Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply.<|quote|>"How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..."</|quote|>"My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the
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end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply.<|quote|>"How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..."</|quote|>"My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin
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A Handful Of Dust
|
"My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again."
|
Mr Todd
|
than I can say, but..."<|quote|>"My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again."</|quote|>"Well, I'm very glad you
|
your kindness to me more than I can say, but..."<|quote|>"My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again."</|quote|>"Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have,
|
plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..."<|quote|>"My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again."</|quote|>"Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject,
|
a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..."<|quote|>"My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again."</|quote|>"Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now."
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his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..."<|quote|>"My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again."</|quote|>"Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or
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paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..."<|quote|>"My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again."</|quote|>"Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have
|
leaf and raw hide. "It has been hard to keep out the worms and ants. Two are practically destroyed. But there is an oil the Indians make that is useful." He unwrapped the nearest parcel and handed down a calf-bound book. It was an early American edition of _Bleak House_. "It does not matter which we take first." "You are fond of Dickens?" "Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..."<|quote|>"My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again."</|quote|>"Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round
|
the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..."<|quote|>"My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again."</|quote|>"Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..."
|
Tony Last
|
us mention the subject again."<|quote|>"Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..."</|quote|>"Yes," said Mr Todd. "The
|
of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again."<|quote|>"Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..."</|quote|>"Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that.
|
how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again."<|quote|>"Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..."</|quote|>"Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When
|
when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again."<|quote|>"Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..."</|quote|>"Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of
|
hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again."<|quote|>"Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..."</|quote|>"Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them
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two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again."<|quote|>"Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..."</|quote|>"Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly
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the Indians make that is useful." He unwrapped the nearest parcel and handed down a calf-bound book. It was an early American edition of _Bleak House_. "It does not matter which we take first." "You are fond of Dickens?" "Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again."<|quote|>"Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..."</|quote|>"Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey
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end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again."<|quote|>"Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..."</|quote|>"Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me
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A Handful Of Dust
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"Yes,"
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Mr Todd
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be thinking of getting back..."<|quote|>"Yes,"</|quote|>said Mr Todd. "The black
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too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..."<|quote|>"Yes,"</|quote|>said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He
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more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..."<|quote|>"Yes,"</|quote|>said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can
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long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..."<|quote|>"Yes,"</|quote|>said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey
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still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..."<|quote|>"Yes,"</|quote|>said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in
|
his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..."<|quote|>"Yes,"</|quote|>said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a
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early American edition of _Bleak House_. "It does not matter which we take first." "You are fond of Dickens?" "Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..."<|quote|>"Yes,"</|quote|>said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within
|
they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..."<|quote|>"Yes,"</|quote|>said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing
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A Handful Of Dust
|
said Mr Todd.
|
No speaker
|
thinking of getting back..." "Yes,"<|quote|>said Mr Todd.</|quote|>"The black man was like
|
But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes,"<|quote|>said Mr Todd.</|quote|>"The black man was like that. He thought of it
|
than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes,"<|quote|>said Mr Todd.</|quote|>"The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a
|
Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes,"<|quote|>said Mr Todd.</|quote|>"The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when
|
have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes,"<|quote|>said Mr Todd.</|quote|>"The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words
|
cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes,"<|quote|>said Mr Todd.</|quote|>"The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed
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American edition of _Bleak House_. "It does not matter which we take first." "You are fond of Dickens?" "Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes,"<|quote|>said Mr Todd.</|quote|>"The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of
|
that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes,"<|quote|>said Mr Todd.</|quote|>"The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best
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A Handful Of Dust
|
"The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..."
|
Mr Todd
|
back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd.<|quote|>"The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..."</|quote|>Twice during the next day
|
must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd.<|quote|>"The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..."</|quote|>Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but
|
say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd.<|quote|>"The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..."</|quote|>Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains.
|
over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd.<|quote|>"The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..."</|quote|>Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The
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to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd.<|quote|>"The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..."</|quote|>Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him
|
beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd.<|quote|>"The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..."</|quote|>Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between
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_Bleak House_. "It does not matter which we take first." "You are fond of Dickens?" "Why, yes, of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd.<|quote|>"The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..."</|quote|>Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of
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"Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd.<|quote|>"The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..."</|quote|>Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os
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A Handful Of Dust
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Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said,
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No speaker
|
time. But he died here..."<|quote|>Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said,</|quote|>"Forgive me, Mr Todd, but
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thought of it all the time. But he died here..."<|quote|>Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said,</|quote|>"Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the
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Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..."<|quote|>Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said,</|quote|>"Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two
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shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..."<|quote|>Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said,</|quote|>"Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might
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said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..."<|quote|>Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said,</|quote|>"Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some
|
man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..."<|quote|>Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said,</|quote|>"Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919.
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of course. More than fond, far more. You see, they are the only books I have ever heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..."<|quote|>Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said,</|quote|>"Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed
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as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..."<|quote|>Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said,</|quote|>"Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear
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A Handful Of Dust
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"Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?"
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Tony Last
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was evasive. Finally, he said,<|quote|>"Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?"</|quote|>"There is no boat." "Well,
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the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said,<|quote|>"Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?"</|quote|>"There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one."
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I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said,<|quote|>"Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?"</|quote|>"There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the
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able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said,<|quote|>"Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?"</|quote|>"There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while
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friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said,<|quote|>"Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?"</|quote|>"There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them
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as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said,<|quote|>"Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?"</|quote|>"There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this
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heard. My father used to read them and then later the black man... and now you. I have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said,<|quote|>"Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?"</|quote|>"There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the
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sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said,<|quote|>"Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?"</|quote|>"There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as
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A Handful Of Dust
|
"There is no boat."
|
Mr Todd
|
can I get a boat?"<|quote|>"There is no boat."</|quote|>"Well, the Indians can build
|
must press the point. When can I get a boat?"<|quote|>"There is no boat."</|quote|>"Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for
|
black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?"<|quote|>"There is no boat."</|quote|>"Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it
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but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?"<|quote|>"There is no boat."</|quote|>"Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy,
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supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?"<|quote|>"There is no boat."</|quote|>"Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the
|
read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?"<|quote|>"There is no boat."</|quote|>"Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin
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have heard them all several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?"<|quote|>"There is no boat."</|quote|>"Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm,
|
characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?"<|quote|>"There is no boat."</|quote|>"Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to
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A Handful Of Dust
|
"Well, the Indians can build one."
|
Tony Last
|
boat?" "There is no boat."<|quote|>"Well, the Indians can build one."</|quote|>"You must wait for the
|
When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat."<|quote|>"Well, the Indians can build one."</|quote|>"You must wait for the rains. There is not enough
|
that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat."<|quote|>"Well, the Indians can build one."</|quote|>"You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to
|
kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat."<|quote|>"Well, the Indians can build one."</|quote|>"You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he
|
of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat."<|quote|>"Well, the Indians can build one."</|quote|>"You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a
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far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat."<|quote|>"Well, the Indians can build one."</|quote|>"You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go
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several times by now but I never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat."<|quote|>"Well, the Indians can build one."</|quote|>"You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens
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his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat."<|quote|>"Well, the Indians can build one."</|quote|>"You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished.
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A Handful Of Dust
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"You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now."
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Mr Todd
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the Indians can build one."<|quote|>"You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now."</|quote|>"How long will that be?"
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"There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one."<|quote|>"You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now."</|quote|>"How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They
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the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one."<|quote|>"You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now."</|quote|>"How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy
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amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one."<|quote|>"You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now."</|quote|>"How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or
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just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one."<|quote|>"You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now."</|quote|>"How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but
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man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one."<|quote|>"You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now."</|quote|>"How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it:
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never get tired; there is always more to be learned and noticed, so many characters, so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one."<|quote|>"You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now."</|quote|>"How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset
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_Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one."<|quote|>"You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now."</|quote|>"How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not,
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A Handful Of Dust
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"How long will that be?"
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Tony Last
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water in the river now."<|quote|>"How long will that be?"</|quote|>"A month... two months..." They
|
rains. There is not enough water in the river now."<|quote|>"How long will that be?"</|quote|>"A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and
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but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now."<|quote|>"How long will that be?"</|quote|>"A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their
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"Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now."<|quote|>"How long will that be?"</|quote|>"A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one
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when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now."<|quote|>"How long will that be?"</|quote|>"A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign
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And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now."<|quote|>"How long will that be?"</|quote|>"A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark
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so many changes of scene, so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now."<|quote|>"How long will that be?"</|quote|>"A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small
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at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now."<|quote|>"How long will that be?"</|quote|>"A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read
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A Handful Of Dust
|
"A month... two months..."
|
Mr Todd
|
"How long will that be?"<|quote|>"A month... two months..."</|quote|>They had finished _Bleak House_
|
water in the river now." "How long will that be?"<|quote|>"A month... two months..."</|quote|>They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end
|
Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?"<|quote|>"A month... two months..."</|quote|>They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have
|
have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?"<|quote|>"A month... two months..."</|quote|>They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They
|
about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?"<|quote|>"A month... two months..."</|quote|>They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he
|
of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?"<|quote|>"A month... two months..."</|quote|>They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr
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so many words... I have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?"<|quote|>"A month... two months..."</|quote|>They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the
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enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?"<|quote|>"A month... two months..."</|quote|>They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at
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A Handful Of Dust
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They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came.
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No speaker
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be?" "A month... two months..."<|quote|>They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came.</|quote|>"Now it is time to
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now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..."<|quote|>They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came.</|quote|>"Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh,
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me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..."<|quote|>They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came.</|quote|>"Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host
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have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..."<|quote|>They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came.</|quote|>"Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he
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civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..."<|quote|>They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came.</|quote|>"Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you
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thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..."<|quote|>They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came.</|quote|>"Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization
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have all Dickens's books here except those that the ants devoured. It takes a long time to read them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..."<|quote|>They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came.</|quote|>"Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime,
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with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..."<|quote|>They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came.</|quote|>"Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch.
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A Handful Of Dust
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"Now it is time to make preparations to go."
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Tony Last
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Son_ when the rain came.<|quote|>"Now it is time to make preparations to go."</|quote|>"Oh, that is impossible. The
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the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came.<|quote|>"Now it is time to make preparations to go."</|quote|>"Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a
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no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came.<|quote|>"Now it is time to make preparations to go."</|quote|>"Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could,
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was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came.<|quote|>"Now it is time to make preparations to go."</|quote|>"Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no
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crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came.<|quote|>"Now it is time to make preparations to go."</|quote|>"Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is
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remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came.<|quote|>"Now it is time to make preparations to go."</|quote|>"Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my
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them all--more than two years." "Well," said Tony lightly, "they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came.<|quote|>"Now it is time to make preparations to go."</|quote|>"Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive
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you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came.<|quote|>"Now it is time to make preparations to go."</|quote|>"Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions."
|
Mr Todd
|
to make preparations to go."<|quote|>"Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions."</|quote|>"You might have told me."
|
came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go."<|quote|>"Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions."</|quote|>"You might have told me." "Did I not mention it?
|
must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go."<|quote|>"Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions."</|quote|>"You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of
|
time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go."<|quote|>"Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions."</|quote|>"You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went
|
soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go."<|quote|>"Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions."</|quote|>"You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without
|
By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go."<|quote|>"Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions."</|quote|>"You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I
|
"they will well last out my visit." "Oh, I hope not. It is delightful to start again. Each time I think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go."<|quote|>"Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions."</|quote|>"You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed.
|
"Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go."<|quote|>"Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions."</|quote|>"You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"You might have told me."
|
Tony Last
|
is one of their superstitions."<|quote|>"You might have told me."</|quote|>"Did I not mention it?
|
boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions."<|quote|>"You might have told me."</|quote|>"Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony
|
month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions."<|quote|>"You might have told me."</|quote|>"Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not
|
he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions."<|quote|>"You might have told me."</|quote|>"Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of
|
shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions."<|quote|>"You might have told me."</|quote|>"Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves,
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to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions."<|quote|>"You might have told me."</|quote|>"Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But,
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think I find more to enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions."<|quote|>"You might have told me."</|quote|>"Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines
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be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions."<|quote|>"You might have told me."</|quote|>"Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * *
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A Handful Of Dust
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"Did I not mention it? I forgot."
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Mr Todd
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"You might have told me."<|quote|>"Did I not mention it? I forgot."</|quote|>Next morning Tony went out
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is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me."<|quote|>"Did I not mention it? I forgot."</|quote|>Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was
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finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me."<|quote|>"Did I not mention it? I forgot."</|quote|>Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He
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Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me."<|quote|>"Did I not mention it? I forgot."</|quote|>Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then
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a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me."<|quote|>"Did I not mention it? I forgot."</|quote|>Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my
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feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me."<|quote|>"Did I not mention it? I forgot."</|quote|>Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You
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enjoy and admire." They took down the first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me."<|quote|>"Did I not mention it? I forgot."</|quote|>Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular
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hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me."<|quote|>"Did I not mention it? I forgot."</|quote|>Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I
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A Handful Of Dust
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Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said,
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No speaker
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not mention it? I forgot."<|quote|>Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said,</|quote|>"Mr Last, the Indians tell
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have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot."<|quote|>Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said,</|quote|>"Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been
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end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot."<|quote|>Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said,</|quote|>"Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children."
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point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot."<|quote|>Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said,</|quote|>"Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_.
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to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot."<|quote|>Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said,</|quote|>"Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my
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touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot."<|quote|>Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said,</|quote|>"Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin
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first volume of _Bleak House_ and that afternoon Tony had his first reading. He had always rather enjoyed reading aloud and in the first year of marriage had shared several books in this way with Brenda, until one day, in a moment of frankness, she remarked that it was torture to her. He had read to John Andrew, late in the afternoon, in winter, while the child sat before the nursery fender eating his supper. But Mr Todd was a unique audience. The old man sat astride his hammock opposite Tony, fixing him throughout with his eyes, and following the words, soundlessly, with his lips. Often when a new character was introduced he would say, "Repeat the name, I have forgotten him," or "Yes, yes, I remember her well. She dies, poor woman." He would frequently interrupt with questions; not as Tony would have imagined about the circumstances of the story--such things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot."<|quote|>Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said,</|quote|>"Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is
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"Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot."<|quote|>Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said,</|quote|>"Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it
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A Handful Of Dust
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"Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children."
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Mr Todd
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mid-day meal Mr Todd said,<|quote|>"Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children."</|quote|>"Well, as a matter of
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went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said,<|quote|>"Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children."</|quote|>"Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them
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motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said,<|quote|>"Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children."</|quote|>"Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_.
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them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said,<|quote|>"Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children."</|quote|>"Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of
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of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said,<|quote|>"Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children."</|quote|>"Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are
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too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said,<|quote|>"Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children."</|quote|>"Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the
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things as the procedure of the Lord Chancellor's Court or the social conventions of the time, though they must have been unintelligible, did not concern him--but always about the characters. "Now, why does she say that? Does she really mean it? Did she feel faint because of the heat of the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said,<|quote|>"Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children."</|quote|>"Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after
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getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said,<|quote|>"Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children."</|quote|>"Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of
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A Handful Of Dust
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"Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe."
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Tony Last
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many cases, as my children."<|quote|>"Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe."</|quote|>"So they gave me to
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regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children."<|quote|>"Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe."</|quote|>"So they gave me to understand... and now if you
|
"Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children."<|quote|>"Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe."</|quote|>"So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy
|
motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children."<|quote|>"Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe."</|quote|>"So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will
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morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children."<|quote|>"Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe."</|quote|>"So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I
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me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children."<|quote|>"Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe."</|quote|>"So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust,
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the fire or of something in that paper?" He laughed loudly at all the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children."<|quote|>"Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe."</|quote|>"So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is
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on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children."<|quote|>"Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe."</|quote|>"So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise,
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A Handful Of Dust
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"So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book."
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Mr Todd
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asking them about a canoe."<|quote|>"So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book."</|quote|>* * * * *
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matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe."<|quote|>"So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book."</|quote|>* * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_.
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with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe."<|quote|>"So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book."</|quote|>* * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I
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gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe."<|quote|>"So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book."</|quote|>* * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr
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aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe."<|quote|>"So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book."</|quote|>* * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like
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have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe."<|quote|>"So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book."</|quote|>* * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival,
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the jokes and at some passages which did not seem humorous to Tony, asking him to repeat them two or three times, and later at the description of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe."<|quote|>"So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book."</|quote|>* * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go
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rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe."<|quote|>"So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book."</|quote|>* * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine
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A Handful Of Dust
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* * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_.
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No speaker
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quite absorbed in the book."<|quote|>* * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_.</|quote|>"Mr Todd," said Tony, "I
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have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book."<|quote|>* * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_.</|quote|>"Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved
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regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book."<|quote|>* * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_.</|quote|>"Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to
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went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book."<|quote|>* * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_.</|quote|>"Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you
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did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book."<|quote|>* * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_.</|quote|>"Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on
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have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book."<|quote|>* * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_.</|quote|>"Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in
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of the sufferings of the outcasts in "Tom-all-alone's" tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. His comments on the story were usually simple. "I think the Dedlock is a very proud man," or, "Mrs Jellyby does not take enough care of her children." Tony enjoyed the readings almost as much as he did. At the end of the first day the old man said, "You read beautifully, with a far better accent than the black man. And you explain better. It is almost as though my father were here again." And always at the end of a session he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book."<|quote|>* * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_.</|quote|>"Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and
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Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book."<|quote|>* * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_.</|quote|>"Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"Mr Todd,"
|
Tony Last
|
this mark signed Barnabas Washington_.<|quote|>"Mr Todd,"</|quote|>said Tony, "I must speak
|
after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_.<|quote|>"Mr Todd,"</|quote|>said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life,
|
I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_.<|quote|>"Mr Todd,"</|quote|>said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released."
|
book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_.<|quote|>"Mr Todd,"</|quote|>said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that
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he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_.<|quote|>"Mr Todd,"</|quote|>said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee,
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months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_.<|quote|>"Mr Todd,"</|quote|>said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef
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he thanked his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_.<|quote|>"Mr Todd,"</|quote|>said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on
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doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_.<|quote|>"Mr Todd,"</|quote|>said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order
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A Handful Of Dust
|
said Tony,
|
No speaker
|
signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd,"<|quote|>said Tony,</|quote|>"I must speak frankly. You
|
_Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd,"<|quote|>said Tony,</|quote|>"I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when
|
Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd,"<|quote|>said Tony,</|quote|>"I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my
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* * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd,"<|quote|>said Tony,</|quote|>"I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I
|
away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd,"<|quote|>said Tony,</|quote|>"I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he
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had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd,"<|quote|>said Tony,</|quote|>"I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and
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his guest courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd,"<|quote|>said Tony,</|quote|>"I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate
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long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd,"<|quote|>said Tony,</|quote|>"I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news
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A Handful Of Dust
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"I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released."
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Tony Last
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Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony,<|quote|>"I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released."</|quote|>"But, my friend, what is
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made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony,<|quote|>"I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released."</|quote|>"But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under
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Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony,<|quote|>"I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released."</|quote|>"But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that
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* * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony,<|quote|>"I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released."</|quote|>"But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely.
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At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony,<|quote|>"I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released."</|quote|>"But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime
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_Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony,<|quote|>"I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released."</|quote|>"But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the
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courteously. "I enjoyed that _very_ much. It was an extremely distressing chapter. But, if I remember it rightly, it will all turn out well." By the time that they were in the second volume, however, the novelty of the old man's delight had begun to wane, and Tony was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony,<|quote|>"I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released."</|quote|>"But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he
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on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony,<|quote|>"I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released."</|quote|>"But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but
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A Handful Of Dust
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"But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like."
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Mr Todd
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I demand to be released."<|quote|>"But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like."</|quote|>"You know very well that
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me here against my will. I demand to be released."<|quote|>"But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like."</|quote|>"You know very well that I can't get away without
|
said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released."<|quote|>"But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like."</|quote|>"You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay
|
Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released."<|quote|>"But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like."</|quote|>"You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and
|
themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released."<|quote|>"But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like."</|quote|>"You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the
|
me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released."<|quote|>"But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like."</|quote|>"You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties
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was feeling strong enough to be restless. He touched more than once on the subject of his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released."<|quote|>"But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like."</|quote|>"You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of
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of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released."<|quote|>"But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like."</|quote|>"You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and
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A Handful Of Dust
|
"You know very well that I can't get away without your help."
|
Tony Last
|
restraint. Go when you like."<|quote|>"You know very well that I can't get away without your help."</|quote|>"In that case you must
|
you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like."<|quote|>"You know very well that I can't get away without your help."</|quote|>"In that case you must humour an old man. Read
|
civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like."<|quote|>"You know very well that I can't get away without your help."</|quote|>"In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no
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in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like."<|quote|>"You know very well that I can't get away without your help."</|quote|>"In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch.
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was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like."<|quote|>"You know very well that I can't get away without your help."</|quote|>"In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of
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host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like."<|quote|>"You know very well that I can't get away without your help."</|quote|>"In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must
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his departure, asking about canoes and rains and the possibility of finding guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like."<|quote|>"You know very well that I can't get away without your help."</|quote|>"In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay
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House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like."<|quote|>"You know very well that I can't get away without your help."</|quote|>"In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would
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A Handful Of Dust
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"In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter."
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Mr Todd
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get away without your help."<|quote|>"In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter."</|quote|>"Mr Todd, I swear by
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very well that I can't get away without your help."<|quote|>"In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter."</|quote|>"Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when
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will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help."<|quote|>"In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter."</|quote|>"Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the
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soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help."<|quote|>"In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter."</|quote|>"Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but
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and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help."<|quote|>"In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter."</|quote|>"Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their
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the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help."<|quote|>"In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter."</|quote|>"Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the
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guides. But Mr Todd seemed obtuse and paid no attention to these hints. One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help."<|quote|>"In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter."</|quote|>"Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies
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I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help."<|quote|>"In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter."</|quote|>"Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that
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A Handful Of Dust
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"Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day."
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Tony Last
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man. Read me another chapter."<|quote|>"Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day."</|quote|>"But I have no need
|
you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter."<|quote|>"Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day."</|quote|>"But I have no need of another man. You read
|
here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter."<|quote|>"Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day."</|quote|>"But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking,
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Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter."<|quote|>"Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day."</|quote|>"But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little
|
chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter."<|quote|>"Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day."</|quote|>"But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to
|
Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter."<|quote|>"Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day."</|quote|>"But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of
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One day, running his thumb through the pages of _Bleak House_ that remained to be read, Tony said, "We still have a lot to get through. I hope I shall be able to finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter."<|quote|>"Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day."</|quote|>"But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that
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them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter."<|quote|>"Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day."</|quote|>"But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to
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A Handful Of Dust
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"But I have no need of another man. You read so well."
|
Mr Todd
|
read to you all day."<|quote|>"But I have no need of another man. You read so well."</|quote|>"I have read for the
|
will pay a man to read to you all day."<|quote|>"But I have no need of another man. You read so well."</|quote|>"I have read for the last time." "I hope not,"
|
away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day."<|quote|>"But I have no need of another man. You read so well."</|quote|>"I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was
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of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day."<|quote|>"But I have no need of another man. You read so well."</|quote|>"I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a
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permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day."<|quote|>"But I have no need of another man. You read so well."</|quote|>"I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into
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made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day."<|quote|>"But I have no need of another man. You read so well."</|quote|>"I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes
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finish it before I go." "Oh yes," said Mr Todd. "Do not disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day."<|quote|>"But I have no need of another man. You read so well."</|quote|>"I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun
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matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day."<|quote|>"But I have no need of another man. You read so well."</|quote|>"I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with
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A Handful Of Dust
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"I have read for the last time."
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Tony Last
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man. You read so well."<|quote|>"I have read for the last time."</|quote|>"I hope not," said Mr
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have no need of another man. You read so well."<|quote|>"I have read for the last time."</|quote|>"I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at
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man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well."<|quote|>"I have read for the last time."</|quote|>"I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it
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present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well."<|quote|>"I have read for the last time."</|quote|>"I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order
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he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well."<|quote|>"I have read for the last time."</|quote|>"I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there
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a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well."<|quote|>"I have read for the last time."</|quote|>"I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires
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disturb yourself about that. You will have time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well."<|quote|>"I have read for the last time."</|quote|>"I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No
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not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well."<|quote|>"I have read for the last time."</|quote|>"I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in
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A Handful Of Dust
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"I hope not,"
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Mr Todd
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read for the last time."<|quote|>"I hope not,"</|quote|>said Mr Todd politely. That
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read so well." "I have read for the last time."<|quote|>"I hope not,"</|quote|>said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one
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I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time."<|quote|>"I hope not,"</|quote|>said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun,
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my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time."<|quote|>"I hope not,"</|quote|>said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who
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in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time."<|quote|>"I hope not,"</|quote|>said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The
|
sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time."<|quote|>"I hope not,"</|quote|>said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he
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time to finish it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time."<|quote|>"I hope not,"</|quote|>said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was
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another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time."<|quote|>"I hope not,"</|quote|>said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the
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A Handful Of Dust
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said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted.
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No speaker
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last time." "I hope not,"<|quote|>said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted.</|quote|>"May I trouble you to
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"I have read for the last time." "I hope not,"<|quote|>said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted.</|quote|>"May I trouble you to read that passage again? It
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anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not,"<|quote|>said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted.</|quote|>"May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and
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demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not,"<|quote|>said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted.</|quote|>"May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will
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Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not,"<|quote|>said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted.</|quote|>"May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and
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through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not,"<|quote|>said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted.</|quote|>"May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence
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it, my friend." For the first time Tony noticed something slightly menacing in his host's manner. That evening at supper, a brief meal of farine and dried beef, eaten just before sundown, Tony renewed the subject. "You know, Mr Todd, the time has come when I must be thinking about getting back to civilization. I have already imposed myself on your hospitality far too long." Mr Todd bent over the plate, crunching mouthfuls of farine, but made no reply. "How soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat?... I said, how soon do you think I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say, but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well, I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject, but his host was evasive. Finally, he said, "Forgive me, Mr Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished _Bleak House_ and were nearing the end of _Dombey and Son_ when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season--it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognizable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not,"<|quote|>said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted.</|quote|>"May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A
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he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not,"<|quote|>said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted.</|quote|>"May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't
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A Handful Of Dust
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"May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy."
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Mr Todd
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And then Mr Todd interrupted.<|quote|>"May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy."</|quote|>The weeks passed; there was
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quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted.<|quote|>"May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy."</|quote|>The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but
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leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted.<|quote|>"May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy."</|quote|>The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with
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his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted.<|quote|>"May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy."</|quote|>The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of
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the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted.<|quote|>"May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy."</|quote|>The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil,
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his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted.<|quote|>"May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy."</|quote|>The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood
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he went away unsatisfied. At their mid-day meal Mr Todd said, "Mr Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted.<|quote|>"May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy."</|quote|>The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms
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anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted.<|quote|>"May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy."</|quote|>The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared
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A Handful Of Dust
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The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration.
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No speaker
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is one I particularly enjoy."<|quote|>The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration.</|quote|>"It is one of the
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read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy."<|quote|>The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration.</|quote|>"It is one of the local feast days," he explained,
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meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy."<|quote|>The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration.</|quote|>"It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire
|
host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy."<|quote|>The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration.</|quote|>"It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must
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confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy."<|quote|>The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration.</|quote|>"It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him
|
been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy."<|quote|>The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration.</|quote|>"It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are
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tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realize, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy."<|quote|>The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration.</|quote|>"It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to
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a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy."<|quote|>The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration.</|quote|>"It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused
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A Handful Of Dust
|
"It is one of the local feast days,"
|
Mr Todd
|
neighbour he proposed a celebration.<|quote|>"It is one of the local feast days,"</|quote|>he explained, "and they have
|
long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration.<|quote|>"It is one of the local feast days,"</|quote|>he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may
|
of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration.<|quote|>"It is one of the local feast days,"</|quote|>he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other
|
at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration.<|quote|>"It is one of the local feast days,"</|quote|>he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That
|
he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration.<|quote|>"It is one of the local feast days,"</|quote|>he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay
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gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration.<|quote|>"It is one of the local feast days,"</|quote|>he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is
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a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration.<|quote|>"It is one of the local feast days,"</|quote|>he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and
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but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration.<|quote|>"It is one of the local feast days,"</|quote|>he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't
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A Handful Of Dust
|
he explained,
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No speaker
|
of the local feast days,"<|quote|>he explained,</|quote|>"and they have been making
|
a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days,"<|quote|>he explained,</|quote|>"and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like
|
hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days,"<|quote|>he explained,</|quote|>"and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of
|
her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days,"<|quote|>he explained,</|quote|>"and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the
|
sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days,"<|quote|>he explained,</|quote|>"and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length
|
exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days,"<|quote|>he explained,</|quote|>"and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another
|
and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days,"<|quote|>he explained,</|quote|>"and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes
|
this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days,"<|quote|>he explained,</|quote|>"and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly
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A Handful Of Dust
|
"and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night."
|
Mr Todd
|
local feast days," he explained,<|quote|>"and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night."</|quote|>Accordingly after supper they joined
|
"It is one of the local feast days," he explained,<|quote|>"and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night."</|quote|>Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that
|
what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained,<|quote|>"and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night."</|quote|>Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought
|
you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained,<|quote|>"and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night."</|quote|>Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of
|
the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained,<|quote|>"and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night."</|quote|>Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton
|
starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained,<|quote|>"and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night."</|quote|>Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you
|
if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." * * * * * They finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained,<|quote|>"and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night."</|quote|>Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her
|
arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained,<|quote|>"and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night."</|quote|>Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in.
|
No speaker
|
to this man's home to-night."<|quote|>Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in.</|quote|>"You must drink it all
|
some. We will go across to this man's home to-night."<|quote|>Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in.</|quote|>"You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That
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when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night."<|quote|>Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in.</|quote|>"You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of
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passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night."<|quote|>Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in.</|quote|>"You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was
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his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night."<|quote|>Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in.</|quote|>"You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it
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sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night."<|quote|>Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in.</|quote|>"You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long
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finished _Dombey and Son_. Nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of _Martin Chuzzlewit_, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night."<|quote|>Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in.</|quote|>"You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy
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for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night."<|quote|>Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in.</|quote|>"You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the
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A Handful Of Dust
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"You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette."
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Mr Todd
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given hammocks to sit in.<|quote|>"You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette."</|quote|>Tony gulped the dark liquid,
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Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in.<|quote|>"You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette."</|quote|>Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it.
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the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in.<|quote|>"You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette."</|quote|>Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented.
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a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in.<|quote|>"You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette."</|quote|>Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching
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was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in.<|quote|>"You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette."</|quote|>Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have
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farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in.<|quote|>"You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette."</|quote|>Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes.
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Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in.<|quote|>"You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette."</|quote|>Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called
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necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in.<|quote|>"You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette."</|quote|>Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They
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A Handful Of Dust
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Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there.
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No speaker
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cup. That is the etiquette."<|quote|>Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there.</|quote|>"Ah, my friend, you are
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it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette."<|quote|>Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there.</|quote|>"Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this
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savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette."<|quote|>Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there.</|quote|>"Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you
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they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette."<|quote|>Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there.</|quote|>"Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It
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been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette."<|quote|>Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there.</|quote|>"Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is
|
and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette."<|quote|>Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there.</|quote|>"Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things
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There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: _Mr Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington_. "Mr Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man?os I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." "But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _Little Dorrit_ and _Oliver Twist_. Then a stranger arrived in the savannah, a half-caste prospector, one of that lonely order of men who wander for a lifetime through the forests, tracing the little streams, sifting the gravel and, ounce by ounce, filling the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette."<|quote|>Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there.</|quote|>"Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton
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farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette."<|quote|>Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there.</|quote|>"Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light
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A Handful Of Dust
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"Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?"
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Mr Todd
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found Mr Todd sitting there.<|quote|>"Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?"</|quote|>"Rotten. That drink doesn't seem
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he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there.<|quote|>"Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?"</|quote|>"Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I
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his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there.<|quote|>"Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?"</|quote|>"Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it.
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had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there.<|quote|>"Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?"</|quote|>"Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you
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of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there.<|quote|>"Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?"</|quote|>"Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put
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neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there.<|quote|>"Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?"</|quote|>"Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled
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the little leather sack of gold dust, more often than not dying of exposure and starvation with five hundred dollars worth of gold hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there.<|quote|>"Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?"</|quote|>"Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy
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host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there.<|quote|>"Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?"</|quote|>"Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes
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A Handful Of Dust
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"Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me."
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Tony Last
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light. How do you feel?"<|quote|>"Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me."</|quote|>"I will give you something
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scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?"<|quote|>"Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me."</|quote|>"I will give you something to make you better. The
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the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?"<|quote|>"Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me."</|quote|>"I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since
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drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?"<|quote|>"Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me."</|quote|>"I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is
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as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?"<|quote|>"Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me."</|quote|>"I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with
|
not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?"<|quote|>"Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me."</|quote|>"I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was
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hung round their necks. Mr Todd was vexed at his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?"<|quote|>"Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me."</|quote|>"I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past
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particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?"<|quote|>"Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me."</|quote|>"I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will
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A Handful Of Dust
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"I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep."
|
Mr Todd
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seem to agree with me."<|quote|>"I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep."</|quote|>"You haven't seen my watch
|
feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me."<|quote|>"I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep."</|quote|>"You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?"
|
once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me."<|quote|>"I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep."</|quote|>"You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is
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recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me."<|quote|>"I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep."</|quote|>"You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were
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his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me."<|quote|>"I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep."</|quote|>"You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no
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will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me."<|quote|>"I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep."</|quote|>"You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house
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his arrival, gave him farine and _tasso_ and sent him on his journey within an hour of his arrival, but in that hour Tony had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me."<|quote|>"I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep."</|quote|>"You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died
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dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me."<|quote|>"I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep."</|quote|>"You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits.
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A Handful Of Dust
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"You haven't seen my watch anywhere?"
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Tony Last
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and to make you sleep."<|quote|>"You haven't seen my watch anywhere?"</|quote|>"You have missed it?" "Yes.
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everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep."<|quote|>"You haven't seen my watch anywhere?"</|quote|>"You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing
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for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep."<|quote|>"You haven't seen my watch anywhere?"</|quote|>"You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our
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mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep."<|quote|>"You haven't seen my watch anywhere?"</|quote|>"You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come
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the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep."<|quote|>"You haven't seen my watch anywhere?"</|quote|>"You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not
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one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep."<|quote|>"You haven't seen my watch anywhere?"</|quote|>"You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in
|
had time to scribble his name on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep."<|quote|>"You haven't seen my watch anywhere?"</|quote|>"You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here
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even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep."<|quote|>"You haven't seen my watch anywhere?"</|quote|>"You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly
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A Handful Of Dust
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"You have missed it?"
|
Mr Todd
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haven't seen my watch anywhere?"<|quote|>"You have missed it?"</|quote|>"Yes. I thought I was
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to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?"<|quote|>"You have missed it?"</|quote|>"Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've
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is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?"<|quote|>"You have missed it?"</|quote|>"Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes.
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during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?"<|quote|>"You have missed it?"</|quote|>"Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to
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his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?"<|quote|>"You have missed it?"</|quote|>"Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever
|
other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?"<|quote|>"You have missed it?"</|quote|>"Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped
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on a slip of paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?"<|quote|>"You have missed it?"</|quote|>"Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's
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address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?"<|quote|>"You have missed it?"</|quote|>"Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it
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A Handful Of Dust
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"Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long."
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Tony Last
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anywhere?" "You have missed it?"<|quote|>"Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long."</|quote|>"Not since you were a
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"You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?"<|quote|>"Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long."</|quote|>"Not since you were a baby. Do you know how
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hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?"<|quote|>"Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long."</|quote|>"Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen.
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of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?"<|quote|>"Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long."</|quote|>"Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself,
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the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?"<|quote|>"Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long."</|quote|>"Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you
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savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?"<|quote|>"Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long."</|quote|>"Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life
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paper and put it into the man's hand. From now on there was hope. The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?"<|quote|>"Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long."</|quote|>"Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was
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he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?"<|quote|>"Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long."</|quote|>"Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an
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A Handful Of Dust
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"Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days."
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Mr Todd
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I've never slept so long."<|quote|>"Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days."</|quote|>"Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes,
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was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long."<|quote|>"Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days."</|quote|>"Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long
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with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long."<|quote|>"Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days."</|quote|>"Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as
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more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long."<|quote|>"Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days."</|quote|>"Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take
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was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long."<|quote|>"Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days."</|quote|>"Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any
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of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long."<|quote|>"Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days."</|quote|>"Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but
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The days followed their unvarying routine; coffee at sunrise, a morning of inaction while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long."<|quote|>"Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days."</|quote|>"Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this
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towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long."<|quote|>"Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days."</|quote|>"Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and
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A Handful Of Dust
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"Nonsense. I can't have."
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Tony Last
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know how long? Two days."<|quote|>"Nonsense. I can't have."</|quote|>"Yes, indeed. It is a
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were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days."<|quote|>"Nonsense. I can't have."</|quote|>"Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a
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has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days."<|quote|>"Nonsense. I can't have."</|quote|>"Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to
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house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days."<|quote|>"Nonsense. I can't have."</|quote|>"Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where
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it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days."<|quote|>"Nonsense. I can't have."</|quote|>"Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow,
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Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days."<|quote|>"Nonsense. I can't have."</|quote|>"Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer
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while Mr Todd pottered about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days."<|quote|>"Nonsense. I can't have."</|quote|>"Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could
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than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days."<|quote|>"Nonsense. I can't have."</|quote|>"Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters,
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A Handful Of Dust
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"Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests."
|
Mr Todd
|
days." "Nonsense. I can't have."<|quote|>"Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests."</|quote|>"Guests?" "Why, yes. I have
|
you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have."<|quote|>"Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests."</|quote|>"Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you
|
to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have."<|quote|>"Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests."</|quote|>"Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all
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Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have."<|quote|>"Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests."</|quote|>"Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And
|
his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have."<|quote|>"Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests."</|quote|>"Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again.
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were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have."<|quote|>"Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests."</|quote|>"Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house.
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about on the business of the farm, farine and _tasso_ at noon, Dickens in the afternoon, farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have."<|quote|>"Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests."</|quote|>"Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton."
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hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have."<|quote|>"Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests."</|quote|>"Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he
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A Handful Of Dust
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"Guests?"
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Tony Last
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because you missed our guests."<|quote|>"Guests?"</|quote|>"Why, yes. I have been
|
time. It is a pity because you missed our guests."<|quote|>"Guests?"</|quote|>"Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were
|
have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests."<|quote|>"Guests?"</|quote|>"Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the
|
scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests."<|quote|>"Guests?"</|quote|>"Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they
|
"I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests."<|quote|>"Guests?"</|quote|>"Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There
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is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests."<|quote|>"Guests?"</|quote|>"Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard
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farine and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests."<|quote|>"Guests?"</|quote|>"Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There
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eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests."<|quote|>"Guests?"</|quote|>"Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually
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A Handful Of Dust
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"Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep."
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Mr Todd
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you missed our guests." "Guests?"<|quote|>"Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep."</|quote|>CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A
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It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?"<|quote|>"Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep."</|quote|>CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy
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missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?"<|quote|>"Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep."</|quote|>CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for
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another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?"<|quote|>"Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep."</|quote|>CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her
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must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?"<|quote|>"Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep."</|quote|>CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the
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the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?"<|quote|>"Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep."</|quote|>CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush
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and _tasso_ and sometimes some fruit for supper, silence from sunset to dawn with the small wick glowing in the beef fat and the palm thatch overhead dimly discernible; but Tony lived in quiet confidence and expectation. Sometime, this year or the next, the prospector would arrive at a Brazilian village with news of his discovery. The disasters of the Messinger expedition would not have passed unnoticed. Tony could imagine the headlines that must have appeared in the popular press; even now, probably, there were search parties working over the country he had crossed; any day English voices must sound over the savannah and a dozen friendly adventurers come crashing through the bush. Even as he was reading, while his lips mechanically followed the printed pages, his mind wandered away from his eager, crazy host opposite, and he began to narrate to himself incidents of his homecoming--the gradual re-encounters with civilization (he shaved and bought new clothes at Man?os, telegraphed for money, received wires of congratulation; he enjoyed the leisurely river journey to Belem, the big liner to Europe; savoured good claret and fresh meat and spring vegetables; he was shy at meeting Brenda and uncertain how to address her... "_Darling_, you've been much longer than you said. I quite thought you were lost..."). And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?"<|quote|>"Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep."</|quote|>CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When
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days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?"<|quote|>"Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep."</|quote|>CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been
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A Handful Of Dust
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CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said,
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No speaker
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without the temptation to weep."<|quote|>CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said,</|quote|>"Molly, you have rabbit-feed on
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book I can never hear without the temptation to weep."<|quote|>CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said,</|quote|>"Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well,
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make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep."<|quote|>CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said,</|quote|>"Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush
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They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep."<|quote|>CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said,</|quote|>"Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late."
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outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep."<|quote|>CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said,</|quote|>"Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh."
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headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep."<|quote|>CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said,</|quote|>"Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants
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And then Mr Todd interrupted. "May I trouble you to read that passage again? It is one I particularly enjoy." The weeks passed; there was no sign of rescue but Tony endured the day for hope of what might happen on the morrow; he even felt a slight stirring of cordiality towards his jailer and was therefore quite willing to join him when, one evening after a long conference with an Indian neighbour he proposed a celebration. "It is one of the local feast days," he explained, "and they have been making _pivari_. You may not like it but you should try some. We will go across to this man's home to-night." Accordingly after supper they joined a party of Indians that were assembled round the fire in one of the huts at the other side of the savannah. They were singing in an apathetic, monotonous manner and passing a large calabash of liquid from mouth to mouth. Separate bowls were brought for Tony and Mr Todd, and they were given hammocks to sit in. "You must drink it all without lowering the cup. That is the etiquette." Tony gulped the dark liquid, trying not to taste it. But it was not unpleasant, hard and muddy on the palate like most of the beverages he had been offered in Brazil, but with a flavour of honey and brown bread. He leant back in the hammock feeling unusually contented. Perhaps at that very moment the search party was in camp a few hours" journey from them. Meanwhile he was warm and drowsy. The cadence of song rose and fell interminably, liturgically. Another calabash of _pivari_ was offered him and he handed it back empty. He lay full length watching the play of shadows on the thatch as the Pie-wies began to dance. Then he shut his eyes and thought of England and Hetton and fell asleep. * * * * * He awoke, still in the Indian hut, with the impression that he had outslept his usual hour. By the position of the sun he knew it was late afternoon. No one else was about. He looked for his watch and found to his surprise that it was not on his wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep."<|quote|>CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said,</|quote|>"Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler." The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them.
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wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep."<|quote|>CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said,</|quote|>"Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?"
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A Handful Of Dust
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Mr Last said,
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No speaker
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up anyway before the jamboree."<|quote|>Mr Last said,</|quote|>"_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to
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I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree."<|quote|>Mr Last said,</|quote|>"_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another
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the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree."<|quote|>Mr Last said,</|quote|>"_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she
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dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree."<|quote|>Mr Last said,</|quote|>"_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and
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footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree."<|quote|>Mr Last said,</|quote|>"_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him,"
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the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree."<|quote|>Mr Last said,</|quote|>"_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and
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wrist. He had left it in the house, he supposed, before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree."<|quote|>Mr Last said,</|quote|>"_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler." The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they
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I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree."<|quote|>Mr Last said,</|quote|>"_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to
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A Handful Of Dust
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Teddy said,
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No speaker
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nothing sacred to you children?"<|quote|>Teddy said,</|quote|>"Another casualty at the stinkeries.
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Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?"<|quote|>Teddy said,</|quote|>"Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought
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constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?"<|quote|>Teddy said,</|quote|>"Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large
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had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?"<|quote|>Teddy said,</|quote|>"Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says
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the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?"<|quote|>Teddy said,</|quote|>"Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all
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us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?"<|quote|>Teddy said,</|quote|>"Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton.
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before coming to the party. "I must have been tight last night," he reflected. Treacherous drink that." He had a headache and feared a recurrence of fever. He found when he set his feet to the ground that he stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?"<|quote|>Teddy said,</|quote|>"Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler." The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who
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the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?"<|quote|>Teddy said,</|quote|>"Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for
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A Handful Of Dust
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Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said,
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No speaker
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next cage. Tricky birds, foxes."<|quote|>Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said,</|quote|>"I'm sorry if I'm late."
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through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes."<|quote|>Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said,</|quote|>"I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr
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jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes."<|quote|>Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said,</|quote|>"I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy
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of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes."<|quote|>Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said,</|quote|>"I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down
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the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes."<|quote|>Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said,</|quote|>"I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry
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elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes."<|quote|>Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said,</|quote|>"I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had
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stood with difficulty; his walk was unsteady and his mind confused as it had been during the first weeks of his convalescence. On his way across the savannah he was obliged to stop more than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes."<|quote|>Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said,</|quote|>"I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler." The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who had lost her brush seemed little the worse for her accident. Teddy surveyed his charges with pride and affection. It was by means of them that he hoped one day to restore Hetton to the glory that it had enjoyed in the days of his Cousin Tony.
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no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes."<|quote|>Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said,</|quote|>"I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
said Mr Last tolerantly.
|
No speaker
|
I'm late." "_If_ you're late..."<|quote|>said Mr Last tolerantly.</|quote|>"How long will the show
|
and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..."<|quote|>said Mr Last tolerantly.</|quote|>"How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got
|
the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..."<|quote|>said Mr Last tolerantly.</|quote|>"How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril
|
rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..."<|quote|>said Mr Last tolerantly.</|quote|>"How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says
|
of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..."<|quote|>said Mr Last tolerantly.</|quote|>"How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She
|
solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..."<|quote|>said Mr Last tolerantly.</|quote|>"How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard
|
than once, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. When he reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..."<|quote|>said Mr Last tolerantly.</|quote|>"How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler." The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who had lost her brush seemed little the worse for her accident. Teddy surveyed his charges with pride and affection. It was by means of them that he hoped one day to restore Hetton to the glory that it had enjoyed in the days of his Cousin Tony.
|
the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..."<|quote|>said Mr Last tolerantly.</|quote|>"How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
asked Teddy.
|
No speaker
|
long will the show last?"<|quote|>asked Teddy.</|quote|>"I've got to run over
|
said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?"<|quote|>asked Teddy.</|quote|>"I've got to run over to Bayton and get some
|
the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?"<|quote|>asked Teddy.</|quote|>"I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just
|
to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?"<|quote|>asked Teddy.</|quote|>"I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this
|
eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?"<|quote|>asked Teddy.</|quote|>"I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she
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been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?"<|quote|>asked Teddy.</|quote|>"I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a
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reached the house he found Mr Todd sitting there. "Ah, my friend, you are late for the reading this afternoon. There is scarcely another half hour of light. How do you feel?" "Rotten. That drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?"<|quote|>asked Teddy.</|quote|>"I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler." The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who had lost her brush seemed little the worse for her accident. Teddy surveyed his charges with pride and affection. It was by means of them that he hoped one day to restore Hetton to the glory that it had enjoyed in the days of his Cousin Tony.
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do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?"<|quote|>asked Teddy.</|quote|>"I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady
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A Handful Of Dust
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"It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan."
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Unknowable
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enough here. Greedy little beggars."<|quote|>"It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan."</|quote|>"There's a letter here from
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for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars."<|quote|>"It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan."</|quote|>"There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry
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if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars."<|quote|>"It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan."</|quote|>"There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to
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got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars."<|quote|>"It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan."</|quote|>"There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk
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twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars."<|quote|>"It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan."</|quote|>"There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt
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drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars."<|quote|>"It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan."</|quote|>"There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?"
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drink doesn't seem to agree with me." "I will give you something to make you better. The forest has remedies for everything; to make you awake and to make you sleep." "You haven't seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars."<|quote|>"It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan."</|quote|>"There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler." The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who had lost her brush seemed little the worse for her accident. Teddy surveyed his charges with pride and affection. It was by means of them that he hoped one day to restore Hetton to the glory that it had enjoyed in the days of his Cousin Tony.
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library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars."<|quote|>"It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan."</|quote|>"There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this,"
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A Handful Of Dust
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"There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication."
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Unknowable
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Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan."<|quote|>"There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication."</|quote|>"Oh." There was a general
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it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan."<|quote|>"There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication."</|quote|>"Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock
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Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan."<|quote|>"There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication."</|quote|>"Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly.
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with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan."<|quote|>"There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication."</|quote|>"Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope
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constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan."<|quote|>"There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication."</|quote|>"Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate
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memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan."<|quote|>"There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication."</|quote|>"Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument
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seen my watch anywhere?" "You have missed it?" "Yes. I thought I was wearing it. I say, I've never slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan."<|quote|>"There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication."</|quote|>"Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler." The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who had lost her brush seemed little the worse for her accident. Teddy surveyed his charges with pride and affection. It was by means of them that he hoped one day to restore Hetton to the glory that it had enjoyed in the days of his Cousin Tony.
|
struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan."<|quote|>"There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication."</|quote|>"Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"Oh."
|
Unknowable
|
down here for the dedication."<|quote|>"Oh."</|quote|>There was a general silence.
|
sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication."<|quote|>"Oh."</|quote|>There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has
|
be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication."<|quote|>"Oh."</|quote|>There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She
|
late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication."<|quote|>"Oh."</|quote|>There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she
|
said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication."<|quote|>"Oh."</|quote|>There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants
|
to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication."<|quote|>"Oh."</|quote|>There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at
|
slept so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication."<|quote|>"Oh."</|quote|>There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler." The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who had lost her brush seemed little the worse for her accident. Teddy surveyed his charges with pride and affection. It was by means of them that he hoped one day to restore Hetton to the glory that it had enjoyed in the days of his Cousin Tony.
|
silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication."<|quote|>"Oh."</|quote|>There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
There was a general silence.
|
No speaker
|
here for the dedication." "Oh."<|quote|>There was a general silence.</|quote|>"She says that Jock has
|
but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh."<|quote|>There was a general silence.</|quote|>"She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this
|
all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh."<|quote|>There was a general silence.</|quote|>"She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief.
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"_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh."<|quote|>There was a general silence.</|quote|>"She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very
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"Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh."<|quote|>There was a general silence.</|quote|>"She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and
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breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh."<|quote|>There was a general silence.</|quote|>"She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even
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so long." "Not since you were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh."<|quote|>There was a general silence.</|quote|>"She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler." The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who had lost her brush seemed little the worse for her accident. Teddy surveyed his charges with pride and affection. It was by means of them that he hoped one day to restore Hetton to the glory that it had enjoyed in the days of his Cousin Tony.
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day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh."<|quote|>There was a general silence.</|quote|>"She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's
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A Handful Of Dust
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"She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon."
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Unknowable
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There was a general silence.<|quote|>"She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon."</|quote|>"Oh." "She could have come
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here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence.<|quote|>"She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon."</|quote|>"Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She
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Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence.<|quote|>"She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon."</|quote|>"Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_"
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Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence.<|quote|>"She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon."</|quote|>"Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used
|
your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence.<|quote|>"She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon."</|quote|>"Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so
|
busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence.<|quote|>"She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon."</|quote|>"Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans
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were a baby. Do you know how long? Two days." "Nonsense. I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence.<|quote|>"She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon."</|quote|>"Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler." The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who had lost her brush seemed little the worse for her accident. Teddy surveyed his charges with pride and affection. It was by means of them that he hoped one day to restore Hetton to the glory that it had enjoyed in the days of his Cousin Tony.
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it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence.<|quote|>"She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon."</|quote|>"Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler." The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals
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A Handful Of Dust
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"Oh."
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Unknowable
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three-line whip for this afternoon."<|quote|>"Oh."</|quote|>"She could have come without
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says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon."<|quote|>"Oh."</|quote|>"She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends
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well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon."<|quote|>"Oh."</|quote|>"She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And
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got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon."<|quote|>"Oh."</|quote|>"She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to
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anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon."<|quote|>"Oh."</|quote|>"She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours,
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were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon."<|quote|>"Oh."</|quote|>"She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were
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I can't have." "Yes, indeed. It is a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon."<|quote|>"Oh."</|quote|>"She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler." The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who had lost her brush seemed little the worse for her accident. Teddy surveyed his charges with pride and affection. It was by means of them that he hoped one day to restore Hetton to the glory that it had enjoyed in the days of his Cousin Tony.
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among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon."<|quote|>"Oh."</|quote|>"She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?"
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
said Molly.
|
No speaker
|
could have come without him,"<|quote|>said Molly.</|quote|>"She sends her love to
|
for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him,"<|quote|>said Molly.</|quote|>"She sends her love to us all and to Hetton."
|
head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him,"<|quote|>said Molly.</|quote|>"She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will
|
get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him,"<|quote|>said Molly.</|quote|>"She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope
|
"_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him,"<|quote|>said Molly.</|quote|>"She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had
|
a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him,"<|quote|>said Molly.</|quote|>"She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have
|
a long time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him,"<|quote|>said Molly.</|quote|>"She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler." The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who had lost her brush seemed little the worse for her accident. Teddy surveyed his charges with pride and affection. It was by means of them that he hoped one day to restore Hetton to the glory that it had enjoyed in the days of his Cousin Tony.
|
hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him,"<|quote|>said Molly.</|quote|>"She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"She sends her love to us all and to Hetton."
|
Unknowable
|
come without him," said Molly.<|quote|>"She sends her love to us all and to Hetton."</|quote|>There was another pause. "Well,
|
afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly.<|quote|>"She sends her love to us all and to Hetton."</|quote|>There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly
|
Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly.<|quote|>"She sends her love to us all and to Hetton."</|quote|>There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda,
|
more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly.<|quote|>"She sends her love to us all and to Hetton."</|quote|>There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * *
|
nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly.<|quote|>"She sends her love to us all and to Hetton."</|quote|>There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted
|
and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly.<|quote|>"She sends her love to us all and to Hetton."</|quote|>There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this
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time. It is a pity because you missed our guests." "Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly.<|quote|>"She sends her love to us all and to Hetton."</|quote|>There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler." The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who had lost her brush seemed little the worse for her accident. Teddy surveyed his charges with pride and affection. It was by means of them that he hoped one day to restore Hetton to the glory that it had enjoyed in the days of his Cousin Tony.
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a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly.<|quote|>"She sends her love to us all and to Hetton."</|quote|>There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was
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A Handful Of Dust
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There was another pause.
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No speaker
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us all and to Hetton."<|quote|>There was another pause.</|quote|>"Well, I think it's a
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"She sends her love to us all and to Hetton."<|quote|>There was another pause.</|quote|>"Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly.
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Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton."<|quote|>There was another pause.</|quote|>"Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She
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fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton."<|quote|>There was another pause.</|quote|>"Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The
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the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton."<|quote|>There was another pause.</|quote|>"Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in
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Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton."<|quote|>There was another pause.</|quote|>"Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would
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"Guests?" "Why, yes. I have been quite gay while you were asleep. Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton."<|quote|>There was another pause.</|quote|>"Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler." The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who had lost her brush seemed little the worse for her accident. Teddy surveyed his charges with pride and affection. It was by means of them that he hoped one day to restore Hetton to the glory that it had enjoyed in the days of his Cousin Tony.
|
nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton."<|quote|>There was another pause.</|quote|>"Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler." The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
said Molly.
|
No speaker
|
it's a jolly good thing,"<|quote|>said Molly.</|quote|>"She couldn't show much widowly
|
another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing,"<|quote|>said Molly.</|quote|>"She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her
|
the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing,"<|quote|>said Molly.</|quote|>"She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope
|
"It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing,"<|quote|>said Molly.</|quote|>"She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind
|
got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing,"<|quote|>said Molly.</|quote|>"She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind.
|
would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing,"<|quote|>said Molly.</|quote|>"She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own
|
Three men from outside. Englishmen. It is a pity you missed them. A pity for them, too, as they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing,"<|quote|>said Molly.</|quote|>"She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler." The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who had lost her brush seemed little the worse for her accident. Teddy surveyed his charges with pride and affection. It was by means of them that he hoped one day to restore Hetton to the glory that it had enjoyed in the days of his Cousin Tony.
|
half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing,"<|quote|>said Molly.</|quote|>"She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
"_Molly!_"
|
Unknowable
|
to get hitched up again."<|quote|>"_Molly!_"</|quote|>"And you know you think
|
It didn't take her long to get hitched up again."<|quote|>"_Molly!_"</|quote|>"And you know you think the same." "I will not
|
afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again."<|quote|>"_Molly!_"</|quote|>"And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used
|
as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again."<|quote|>"_Molly!_"</|quote|>"And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once
|
cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again."<|quote|>"_Molly!_"</|quote|>"And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a
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kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again."<|quote|>"_Molly!_"</|quote|>"And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said
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they particularly wished to see you. But what could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again."<|quote|>"_Molly!_"</|quote|>"And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler." The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who had lost her brush seemed little the worse for her accident. Teddy surveyed his charges with pride and affection. It was by means of them that he hoped one day to restore Hetton to the glory that it had enjoyed in the days of his Cousin Tony.
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too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again."<|quote|>"_Molly!_"</|quote|>"And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler." The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who had lost her brush seemed little the worse for her accident. Teddy surveyed his charges with pride and affection. It was by means of them that he hoped one day to
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A Handful Of Dust
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"I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy."
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Unknowable
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know you think the same."<|quote|>"I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy."</|quote|>"She was always jolly decent
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up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same."<|quote|>"I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy."</|quote|>"She was always jolly decent to us when she used
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said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same."<|quote|>"I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy."</|quote|>"She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on
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head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same."<|quote|>"I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy."</|quote|>"She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most
|
was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same."<|quote|>"I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy."</|quote|>"She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements,
|
the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same."<|quote|>"I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy."</|quote|>"She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving
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could I do? You were so sound asleep. They had come all the way to find you, so--I thought you would not mind--as you could not greet them yourself, I gave them a little souvenir, your watch. They wanted something to take back to England where a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same."<|quote|>"I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy."</|quote|>"She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler." The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who had lost her brush seemed little the worse for her accident. Teddy surveyed his charges with pride and affection. It was by means of them that he hoped one day to restore Hetton to the glory that it had enjoyed in the days of his Cousin Tony.
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was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same."<|quote|>"I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy."</|quote|>"She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of
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A Handful Of Dust
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said Agnes.
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No speaker
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she used to live here,"<|quote|>said Agnes.</|quote|>"Well, I should hope so,"
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jolly decent to us when she used to live here,"<|quote|>said Agnes.</|quote|>"Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's
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you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here,"<|quote|>said Agnes.</|quote|>"Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial
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have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here,"<|quote|>said Agnes.</|quote|>"Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard
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over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here,"<|quote|>said Agnes.</|quote|>"Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm
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to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here,"<|quote|>said Agnes.</|quote|>"Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and
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a reward is being offered for news of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here,"<|quote|>said Agnes.</|quote|>"Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler." The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who had lost her brush seemed little the worse for her accident. Teddy surveyed his charges with pride and affection. It was by means of them that he hoped one day to restore Hetton to the glory that it had enjoyed in the days of his Cousin Tony.
|
got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here,"<|quote|>said Agnes.</|quote|>"Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler." The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who had lost her brush seemed little the worse for her accident. Teddy surveyed his charges with pride and affection. It was by means of them that he hoped one day to restore Hetton to the glory that it had enjoyed in the days of his Cousin Tony.
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
said Teddy.
|
No speaker
|
"Well, I should hope so,"<|quote|>said Teddy.</|quote|>"After all, it's our place."
|
to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so,"<|quote|>said Teddy.</|quote|>"After all, it's our place." * * * * *
|
allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so,"<|quote|>said Teddy.</|quote|>"After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St
|
sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so,"<|quote|>said Teddy.</|quote|>"After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that
|
rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so,"<|quote|>said Teddy.</|quote|>"After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said.
|
late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so,"<|quote|>said Teddy.</|quote|>"After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of
|
of you. They were very pleased with it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so,"<|quote|>said Teddy.</|quote|>"After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler." The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who had lost her brush seemed little the worse for her accident. Teddy surveyed his charges with pride and affection. It was by means of them that he hoped one day to restore Hetton to the glory that it had enjoyed in the days of his Cousin Tony.
|
the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so,"<|quote|>said Teddy.</|quote|>"After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler." The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who had lost her brush seemed little the worse for her accident. Teddy surveyed his charges with pride and affection. It was by means of them that he hoped one day to restore Hetton to the glory that it had enjoyed in the days of his Cousin Tony.
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
* * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel.
|
No speaker
|
"After all, it's our place."<|quote|>* * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel.</|quote|>"I'm glad we put that
|
should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place."<|quote|>* * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel.</|quote|>"I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know,
|
Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place."<|quote|>* * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel.</|quote|>"I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we
|
to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place."<|quote|>* * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel.</|quote|>"I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She
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got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place."<|quote|>* * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel.</|quote|>"I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned
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for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place."<|quote|>* * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel.</|quote|>"I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler." The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who had lost her brush seemed little the worse for her accident. Teddy surveyed his charges with pride and affection. It was by means of them that he hoped one day to restore Hetton to the glory that it had enjoyed in the days of his Cousin Tony.
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it. And they took some photographs of the little cross I put up to commemorate your coming. They were pleased with that, too. They were very easily pleased. But I do not suppose they will visit us again, our life here is so retired... no pleasures except reading... I do not suppose we shall ever have visitors again... well, well, I will get you some medicine to make you feel better. Your head aches, does it not?... We will not have any Dickens to-day... but to-morrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Let us read _Little Dorrit_ again. There are passages in that book I can never hear without the temptation to weep." CHAPTER VII ENGLISH GOTHIC--III A light breeze in the dewy orchards; brilliant, cool sunshine over meadows and copses; the elms were all in bud in the avenue; everything was early that year, for it had been a mild winter. High overhead among its gargoyles and crockets the clock chimed for the hour and solemnly struck fourteen. It was half-past eight. The clock has been irregular lately. It was one of the things that Richard Last intended to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place."<|quote|>* * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel.</|quote|>"I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler." The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who had lost her brush seemed little the worse for her accident. Teddy surveyed his charges with pride and affection. It was by means of them that he hoped one day to restore Hetton to the glory that it had enjoyed in the days of his Cousin Tony.
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was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place."<|quote|>* * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel.</|quote|>"I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No,
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A Handful Of Dust
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he said.
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No speaker
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glad we put that up,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"You know, I should never
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time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"You know, I should never have thought of it, if
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EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was
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regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated
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said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of
|
rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler." The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who had lost her brush seemed little the worse for her accident. Teddy surveyed his charges with pride and affection. It was by means of them that he hoped one day to restore Hetton to the glory that it had enjoyed in the days of his Cousin Tony.
|
to see to, when death duties were paid and silver foxes began to show a profit. Molly Last bowled up the drive on her two-stroke motor-cycle; there was bran mash on her breeches and in her hair. She had been feeding the Angora rabbits. On the gravel in front of the house the new memorial stood, shrouded in a flag. Molly propped the motor-cycle against the wall of the drawbridge and ran in to breakfast. Life at Hetton was busier but simpler since Richard Last's succession. Ambrose remained, but there were no longer any footmen; he and a boy and four women servants did the work of the house. Richard Last called them his "skeleton staff". When things were easier he would extend the household; meanwhile the dining-hall and the library were added to the state apartments which were kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler." The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who had lost her brush seemed little the worse for her accident. Teddy surveyed his charges with pride and affection. It was by means of them that he hoped one day to restore Hetton to the glory that it had enjoyed in the days of his Cousin Tony.
|
for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler." The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who had lost her brush seemed little the worse for her accident. Teddy surveyed his charges with pride and affection. It was by means of them that he hoped one day to restore Hetton to the glory that it had enjoyed in the days of his Cousin Tony.
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four.
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No speaker
|
he would have preferred this,"<|quote|>said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four.</|quote|>"Coming to the stinkeries?" he
|
estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this,"<|quote|>said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four.</|quote|>"Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking
|
plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this,"<|quote|>said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four.</|quote|>"Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler." The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the
|
the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this,"<|quote|>said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four.</|quote|>"Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler." The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits.
|
a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this,"<|quote|>said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four.</|quote|>"Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler." The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who had lost her brush seemed little the worse for her accident. Teddy surveyed his charges with pride and affection. It was by means of them that he hoped one day to restore Hetton to the glory that it had enjoyed in the days of his Cousin Tony.
|
"_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this,"<|quote|>said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four.</|quote|>"Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler." The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who had lost her brush seemed little the worse for her accident. Teddy surveyed his charges with pride and affection. It was by means of them that he hoped one day to restore Hetton to the glory that it had enjoyed in the days of his Cousin Tony.
|
kept locked and shuttered; the family lived in the morning-room, the smoking-room and what had been Tony's study. Most of the kitchen quarters, too, were out of use; an up-to-date and economical range had been installed in one of the pantries. The family all appeared downstairs by half-past eight, except Agnes, who took longer to dress and was usually some minutes late; Teddy and Molly had been out for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this,"<|quote|>said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four.</|quote|>"Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler." The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who had lost her brush seemed little the worse for her accident. Teddy surveyed his charges with pride and affection. It was by means of them that he hoped one day to restore Hetton to the glory that it had enjoyed in the days of his Cousin Tony.
|
a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this,"<|quote|>said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four.</|quote|>"Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler." The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who had lost her brush seemed little the worse for her accident. Teddy surveyed his charges with pride and affection. It was by means of them that he hoped one day to restore Hetton to the glory that it had enjoyed in the days of his Cousin Tony.
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
he asked Agnes.
|
No speaker
|
four. "Coming to the stinkeries?"<|quote|>he asked Agnes.</|quote|>"No, I'm looking after Cousin
|
the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?"<|quote|>he asked Agnes.</|quote|>"No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on
|
himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?"<|quote|>he asked Agnes.</|quote|>"No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler." The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived
|
think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?"<|quote|>he asked Agnes.</|quote|>"No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler." The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who had lost her brush
|
have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?"<|quote|>he asked Agnes.</|quote|>"No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler." The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who had lost her brush seemed little the worse for her accident. Teddy surveyed his charges with pride and affection. It was by means of them that he hoped one day to restore Hetton to the glory that it had enjoyed in the days of his Cousin Tony.
|
* * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?"<|quote|>he asked Agnes.</|quote|>"No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler." The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who had lost her brush seemed little the worse for her accident. Teddy surveyed his charges with pride and affection. It was by means of them that he hoped one day to restore Hetton to the glory that it had enjoyed in the days of his Cousin Tony.
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for an hour, she among the rabbits, he to the silver foxes. Teddy was twenty-two and lived at home. Peter was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?"<|quote|>he asked Agnes.</|quote|>"No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler." The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who had lost her brush seemed little the worse for her accident. Teddy surveyed his charges with pride and affection. It was by means of them that he hoped one day to restore Hetton to the glory that it had enjoyed in the days of his Cousin Tony.
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"Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?"<|quote|>he asked Agnes.</|quote|>"No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler." The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who had lost her brush seemed little the worse for her accident. Teddy surveyed his charges with pride and affection. It was by means of them that he hoped one day to restore Hetton to the glory that it had enjoyed in the days of his Cousin Tony.
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A Handful Of Dust
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The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who had lost her brush seemed little the worse for her accident. Teddy surveyed his charges with pride and affection. It was by means of them that he hoped one day to restore Hetton to the glory that it had enjoyed in the days of his Cousin Tony.
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No speaker
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through crabbing the new boiler."<|quote|>The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who had lost her brush seemed little the worse for her accident. Teddy surveyed his charges with pride and affection. It was by means of them that he hoped one day to restore Hetton to the glory that it had enjoyed in the days of his Cousin Tony.</|quote|>
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got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler."<|quote|>The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who had lost her brush seemed little the worse for her accident. Teddy surveyed his charges with pride and affection. It was by means of them that he hoped one day to restore Hetton to the glory that it had enjoyed in the days of his Cousin Tony.</|quote|>
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his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler."<|quote|>The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who had lost her brush seemed little the worse for her accident. Teddy surveyed his charges with pride and affection. It was by means of them that he hoped one day to restore Hetton to the glory that it had enjoyed in the days of his Cousin Tony.</|quote|>
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by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler."<|quote|>The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who had lost her brush seemed little the worse for her accident. Teddy surveyed his charges with pride and affection. It was by means of them that he hoped one day to restore Hetton to the glory that it had enjoyed in the days of his Cousin Tony.</|quote|>
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the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler."<|quote|>The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who had lost her brush seemed little the worse for her accident. Teddy surveyed his charges with pride and affection. It was by means of them that he hoped one day to restore Hetton to the glory that it had enjoyed in the days of his Cousin Tony.</|quote|>
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the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler."<|quote|>The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who had lost her brush seemed little the worse for her accident. Teddy surveyed his charges with pride and affection. It was by means of them that he hoped one day to restore Hetton to the glory that it had enjoyed in the days of his Cousin Tony.</|quote|>
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was still at Oxford. They breakfasted together in the morning-room. Mrs Last sat at one end of the table, her husband at the other; there was a constant traffic from hand to hand to and fro between them of cups, plates, honey-jars and correspondence. Mrs Last said, "Molly, you have rabbit-feed on your head again." "Oh well, I shall have to tidy up anyway before the jamboree." Mr Last said, "_Jamboree?_ Is nothing sacred to you children?" Teddy said, "Another casualty at the stinkeries. That little vixen we bought from the people at Okehampton got her brush bitten off during the night. Must have got it through the wire into the next cage. Tricky birds, foxes." Agnes came next; she was a neat, circumspect child of twelve, with large grave eyes behind her goggles. She kissed her father and mother and said, "I'm sorry if I'm late." "_If_ you're late..." said Mr Last tolerantly. "How long will the show last?" asked Teddy. "I've got to run over to Bayton and get some more rabbits for the foxes. Chivers says he's got about fifty waiting for me. We can't shoot enough here. Greedy little beggars." "It will be all over by half-past eleven. Mr Tendril isn't going to preach a sermon. It's just as well really. He's got it into his head that Cousin Tony died in Afghanistan." "There's a letter here from Cousin Brenda. She's very sorry but she can't get down here for the dedication." "Oh." There was a general silence. "She says that Jock has a three-line whip for this afternoon." "Oh." "She could have come without him," said Molly. "She sends her love to us all and to Hetton." There was another pause. "Well, I think it's a jolly good thing," said Molly. "She couldn't show much widowly grief. It didn't take her long to get hitched up again." "_Molly!_" "And you know you think the same." "I will not allow you to talk like that about Cousin Brenda, whatever we think. She had a perfect right to marry again and I hope she and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler."<|quote|>The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who had lost her brush seemed little the worse for her accident. Teddy surveyed his charges with pride and affection. It was by means of them that he hoped one day to restore Hetton to the glory that it had enjoyed in the days of his Cousin Tony.</|quote|>
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and Mr Grant-Menzies are very happy." "She was always jolly decent to us when she used to live here," said Agnes. "Well, I should hope so," said Teddy. "After all, it's our place." * * * * * The day was still fine at eleven o'clock, though the wind had got up, fluttering the papers on which the order of the service was printed and once threatening to unveil the memorial prematurely. Several relatives were present, Lady St Cloud, Aunt Frances and the family of impoverished Lasts who had not profited by Tony's disappearance. All the household and estate servants were there, several tenants and most of the village; there were also a dozen or so neighbours, among them Colonel Inch--Richard Last and Teddy had hunted regularly that season with the Pigstanton. Mr Tendril conducted the brief service in resonant tones that were clearly audible above the blustering wind. When he pulled the cord the flag fell away from the memorial without mishap. It was a plain monolith of local stone, inscribed: ANTHONY LAST OF HETTON EXPLORER Born at Hetton, 1902 Died in Brazil, 1934 When the local visitors had left and the relatives had gone into the house to be shown the new labour-saving arrangements, Richard Last and Lady St Cloud remained for a short time on the gravel. "I'm glad we put that up," he said. "You know, I should never have thought of it, if it had not been for a Mrs Beaver. She wrote to me as soon as the news of Tony's death was published. I didn't know her at the time. Of course we knew very few of Tony's friends." "It was her suggestion?" "Yes, she said that as one of Tony's closest friends she knew he would wish to have some monument at Hetton. She was most considerate--even offering to arrange with the contractors for it. Her own plans were more ambitious. She proposed that we should have the chapel redecorated as a chantry. But I think this is what he would have preferred. The stone comes from one of our own quarries and was cut by the estate workmen." "Yes, I think he would have preferred this," said Lady St Cloud. * * * * * Teddy had chosen Galahad for his bedroom. He disengaged himself from the family and hurried up to change out of his dark clothes. Within ten minutes he was in his car driving to Chivers' farm. Before luncheon he was back with the rabbits. They were skinned and tied round the feet into bundles of four. "Coming to the stinkeries?" he asked Agnes. "No, I'm looking after Cousin Frances. She got rather on mother's nerves through crabbing the new boiler."<|quote|>The silver-fox farm was behind the stables; a long double row of wire cages; they had wire floors covered with earth and cinders to prevent the animals digging their way out. They lived in pairs; some were moderately tame but it was unwise to rely upon them. Teddy and Ben Hacket--who helped with them--had been badly bitten more than once that winter. They ran up to the doors when they saw Teddy come with the rabbits. The vixen who had lost her brush seemed little the worse for her accident. Teddy surveyed his charges with pride and affection. It was by means of them that he hoped one day to restore Hetton to the glory that it had enjoyed in the days of his Cousin Tony.</|quote|>
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A Handful Of Dust
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CHAPTER I. Down the Rabbit-Hole Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it,
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No speaker
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<|quote|>CHAPTER I. Down the Rabbit-Hole Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it,</|quote|>"and what is the use
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<|quote|>CHAPTER I. Down the Rabbit-Hole Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it,</|quote|>"and what is the use of a book," thought Alice
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<|quote|>CHAPTER I. Down the Rabbit-Hole Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it,</|quote|>"and what is the use of a book," thought Alice "without pictures or conversations?" So she was considering in her own mind (as well as she could, for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of making a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble
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<|quote|>CHAPTER I. Down the Rabbit-Hole Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it,</|quote|>"and what is the use of a book," thought Alice "without pictures or conversations?" So she was considering in her own mind (as well as she could, for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of making a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and picking the daisies, when suddenly a White Rabbit with pink eyes ran close by her. There was nothing so _very_ remarkable in that; nor did Alice think it so _very_ much out of the way to hear the Rabbit say to itself, "Oh dear! Oh dear!
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<|quote|>CHAPTER I. Down the Rabbit-Hole Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it,</|quote|>"and what is the use of a book," thought Alice "without pictures or conversations?" So she was considering in her own mind (as well as she could, for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of making a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and picking the daisies, when suddenly a White Rabbit with pink eyes ran close by her. There was nothing so _very_ remarkable in that; nor did Alice think it so _very_ much out of the way to hear the Rabbit say to itself, "Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be late!" (when she thought it over afterwards, it occurred to her that she ought to have wondered at this, but at the time it all seemed quite natural); but when the Rabbit actually _took a watch out of its waistcoat-pocket_, and looked at it, and then hurried on, Alice started to her feet, for it flashed across her mind that she had never before seen a rabbit with either a waistcoat-pocket, or a watch to take out of it, and burning with curiosity, she ran across the field after it, and fortunately was just in time to
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<|quote|>CHAPTER I. Down the Rabbit-Hole Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it,</|quote|>"and what is the use of a book," thought Alice "without pictures or conversations?" So she was considering in her own mind (as well as she could, for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of making a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and picking the daisies, when suddenly a White Rabbit with pink eyes ran close by her. There was nothing so _very_ remarkable in that; nor did Alice think it so _very_ much out of the way to hear the Rabbit say to itself, "Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be late!" (when she thought it over afterwards, it occurred to her that she ought to have wondered at this, but at the time it all seemed quite natural); but when the Rabbit actually _took a watch out of its waistcoat-pocket_, and looked at it, and then hurried on, Alice started to her feet, for it flashed across her mind that she had never before seen a rabbit with either a waistcoat-pocket, or a watch to take out of it, and burning with curiosity, she ran across the field after it, and fortunately was just in time to see it pop down a large rabbit-hole under the hedge. In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again. The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down a very deep well. Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her and to wonder what was going to happen next. First, she tried to look down and make out what she was coming to, but it was too dark to see anything; then she looked at the sides of the well, and noticed that they were filled with cupboards and book-shelves; here and there she saw maps and pictures hung upon pegs. She took down a jar from one of the shelves as she passed; it was labelled "ORANGE MARMALADE", but to her great disappointment it was empty: she did not like to drop the jar for fear of killing somebody underneath, so managed to put
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<|quote|>CHAPTER I. Down the Rabbit-Hole Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it,</|quote|>"and what is the use of a book," thought Alice "without pictures or conversations?" So she was considering in her own mind (as well as she could, for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of making a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and picking the daisies, when suddenly a White Rabbit with pink eyes ran close by her. There was nothing so _very_ remarkable in that; nor did Alice think it so _very_ much out of the way to hear the Rabbit say to itself, "Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be late!" (when she thought it over afterwards, it occurred to her that she ought to have wondered at this, but at the time it all seemed quite natural); but when the Rabbit actually _took a watch out of its waistcoat-pocket_, and looked at it, and then hurried on, Alice started to her feet, for it flashed across her mind that she had never before seen a rabbit with either a waistcoat-pocket, or a watch to take out of it, and burning with curiosity, she ran across the field after it, and fortunately was just in time to see it pop down a large rabbit-hole under the hedge. In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again. The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down a very deep well. Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her and to wonder what was going to happen next. First, she tried to look down and make out what she was coming to, but it was too dark to see anything; then she looked at the sides of the well, and noticed that they were filled with cupboards and book-shelves; here and there she saw maps and pictures hung upon pegs. She took down a jar from one of the shelves as she passed; it was labelled "ORANGE MARMALADE", but to her great disappointment it was empty: she did not like to drop the jar for fear of killing somebody underneath, so managed to put it into one of the cupboards as she fell past it. "Well!" thought Alice to herself, "after such a fall as this, I shall think nothing of tumbling down stairs! How brave they'll all think me at home! Why, I wouldn't say anything about it, even if I fell off the top of the house!" (Which was very likely true.) Down, down, down. Would the fall _never_ come to an end? "I wonder how many miles I've fallen by this time?" she said aloud. "I must be getting somewhere near the centre of the earth. Let me see: that would be four thousand miles down, I think--" (for, you see, Alice had learnt several things of this sort in her lessons in the schoolroom, and though this was not a _very_ good opportunity for showing off her knowledge, as there was no one to listen to her, still it was good practice to say it over) "--yes, that's about the right distance--but then I wonder what Latitude or Longitude I've got to?" (Alice had no idea what Latitude was, or Longitude either, but thought they were nice grand words to say.) Presently she began again. "I wonder if I shall fall right _through_ the earth! How funny it'll seem to come out among the people that walk with their heads downward! The Antipathies, I think--" (she was rather glad there _was_ no one listening, this time, as it didn't sound at all the right word) "--but I shall have to ask them what the name of the country is, you know. Please, Ma'am, is this New Zealand or Australia?" (and she tried to curtsey as she spoke--fancy _curtseying_ as you're falling through the air! Do you think you could manage it?) "And what an ignorant little girl she'll think me for asking! No, it'll never do to ask: perhaps I shall see it written up somewhere." Down, down, down. There was nothing else to do, so Alice soon began talking again. "Dinah'll miss me very much to-night, I should think!" (Dinah was the cat.) "I hope they'll remember her saucer of milk at tea-time. Dinah my dear! I wish you were down here with me! There are no mice in the air, I'm afraid, but you might catch a bat, and that's very like a mouse, you know. But do cats eat bats, I wonder?" And here Alice began to
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<|quote|>CHAPTER I. Down the Rabbit-Hole Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it,</|quote|>"and what is the use of a book," thought Alice "without pictures or conversations?" So she was considering in her own mind (as well as she could, for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of making a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and picking the daisies, when suddenly a White Rabbit with pink eyes ran close by her. There was nothing so _very_ remarkable in that; nor did Alice think it so _very_ much out of the way to hear the Rabbit say to itself, "Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be late!" (when she thought it over afterwards, it occurred to her that she ought to have wondered at this, but at the time it all seemed quite natural); but when the Rabbit actually _took a watch out of its waistcoat-pocket_, and looked at it, and then hurried on, Alice started to her feet, for it flashed across her mind that she had never before seen a rabbit with either a waistcoat-pocket, or a watch to take out of it, and burning with curiosity, she ran across the field after it, and fortunately was just in time to see it pop down a large rabbit-hole under the hedge. In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again. The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down a very deep well. Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her and to wonder what was going to happen next. First, she tried to look down and make out what she was coming to, but it was too dark to see anything; then she looked at the sides of the well, and noticed that they were filled with cupboards and book-shelves; here and there she saw maps and pictures hung upon pegs. She took down a jar from one of the shelves as she passed; it was labelled "ORANGE MARMALADE", but to her great disappointment it was empty: she did not like to drop the jar for fear of killing somebody underneath, so managed to put it into one of the cupboards as she fell past it. "Well!" thought Alice to herself, "after such a fall as
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Alices Adventures In Wonderland
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"and what is the use of a book,"
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Alice
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pictures or conversations in it,<|quote|>"and what is the use of a book,"</|quote|>thought Alice "without pictures or
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reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it,<|quote|>"and what is the use of a book,"</|quote|>thought Alice "without pictures or conversations?" So she was considering
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CHAPTER I. Down the Rabbit-Hole Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it,<|quote|>"and what is the use of a book,"</|quote|>thought Alice "without pictures or conversations?" So she was considering in her own mind (as well as she could, for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of making a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and picking the daisies, when
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CHAPTER I. Down the Rabbit-Hole Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it,<|quote|>"and what is the use of a book,"</|quote|>thought Alice "without pictures or conversations?" So she was considering in her own mind (as well as she could, for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of making a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and picking the daisies, when suddenly a White Rabbit with pink eyes ran close by her. There was nothing so _very_ remarkable in that; nor did Alice think it so _very_ much out of the way to hear the Rabbit say to itself, "Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be late!" (when she thought it
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CHAPTER I. Down the Rabbit-Hole Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it,<|quote|>"and what is the use of a book,"</|quote|>thought Alice "without pictures or conversations?" So she was considering in her own mind (as well as she could, for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of making a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and picking the daisies, when suddenly a White Rabbit with pink eyes ran close by her. There was nothing so _very_ remarkable in that; nor did Alice think it so _very_ much out of the way to hear the Rabbit say to itself, "Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be late!" (when she thought it over afterwards, it occurred to her that she ought to have wondered at this, but at the time it all seemed quite natural); but when the Rabbit actually _took a watch out of its waistcoat-pocket_, and looked at it, and then hurried on, Alice started to her feet, for it flashed across her mind that she had never before seen a rabbit with either a waistcoat-pocket, or a watch to take out of it, and burning with curiosity, she ran across the field after it, and fortunately was just in time to see it pop down a large rabbit-hole under
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CHAPTER I. Down the Rabbit-Hole Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it,<|quote|>"and what is the use of a book,"</|quote|>thought Alice "without pictures or conversations?" So she was considering in her own mind (as well as she could, for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of making a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and picking the daisies, when suddenly a White Rabbit with pink eyes ran close by her. There was nothing so _very_ remarkable in that; nor did Alice think it so _very_ much out of the way to hear the Rabbit say to itself, "Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be late!" (when she thought it over afterwards, it occurred to her that she ought to have wondered at this, but at the time it all seemed quite natural); but when the Rabbit actually _took a watch out of its waistcoat-pocket_, and looked at it, and then hurried on, Alice started to her feet, for it flashed across her mind that she had never before seen a rabbit with either a waistcoat-pocket, or a watch to take out of it, and burning with curiosity, she ran across the field after it, and fortunately was just in time to see it pop down a large rabbit-hole under the hedge. In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again. The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down a very deep well. Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her and to wonder what was going to happen next. First, she tried to look down and make out what she was coming to, but it was too dark to see anything; then she looked at the sides of the well, and noticed that they were filled with cupboards and book-shelves; here and there she saw maps and pictures hung upon pegs. She took down a jar from one of the shelves as she passed; it was labelled "ORANGE MARMALADE", but to her great disappointment it was empty: she did not like to drop the jar for fear of killing somebody underneath, so managed to put it into one of the cupboards as she
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CHAPTER I. Down the Rabbit-Hole Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it,<|quote|>"and what is the use of a book,"</|quote|>thought Alice "without pictures or conversations?" So she was considering in her own mind (as well as she could, for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of making a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and picking the daisies, when suddenly a White Rabbit with pink eyes ran close by her. There was nothing so _very_ remarkable in that; nor did Alice think it so _very_ much out of the way to hear the Rabbit say to itself, "Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be late!" (when she thought it over afterwards, it occurred to her that she ought to have wondered at this, but at the time it all seemed quite natural); but when the Rabbit actually _took a watch out of its waistcoat-pocket_, and looked at it, and then hurried on, Alice started to her feet, for it flashed across her mind that she had never before seen a rabbit with either a waistcoat-pocket, or a watch to take out of it, and burning with curiosity, she ran across the field after it, and fortunately was just in time to see it pop down a large rabbit-hole under the hedge. In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again. The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down a very deep well. Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her and to wonder what was going to happen next. First, she tried to look down and make out what she was coming to, but it was too dark to see anything; then she looked at the sides of the well, and noticed that they were filled with cupboards and book-shelves; here and there she saw maps and pictures hung upon pegs. She took down a jar from one of the shelves as she passed; it was labelled "ORANGE MARMALADE", but to her great disappointment it was empty: she did not like to drop the jar for fear of killing somebody underneath, so managed to put it into one of the cupboards as she fell past it. "Well!" thought Alice to herself, "after such a fall as this, I shall think nothing of tumbling down stairs! How brave they'll all think me at home! Why, I wouldn't say anything about it, even if I fell off the top of the house!" (Which was very likely true.) Down, down, down. Would the fall _never_ come to an end? "I wonder how many miles I've fallen by this time?" she said aloud. "I must be getting somewhere near the centre of the earth. Let me see: that would be four thousand miles down, I think--" (for, you see, Alice had learnt several things of this sort in her lessons in the schoolroom, and though this was not a _very_ good opportunity for showing off her knowledge, as there was no one to listen to her, still it was good practice to say it over) "--yes, that's about the right distance--but then I wonder what Latitude or Longitude I've got to?" (Alice had no idea what Latitude was, or Longitude either, but thought they were nice grand words to say.) Presently she began again. "I wonder if I shall fall right _through_ the earth! How funny it'll seem to come out among the people that walk with their heads downward! The Antipathies, I think--" (she was rather glad there _was_ no one listening, this time, as it didn't sound at all the right word) "--but I shall have to ask them what the name of the country is, you know. Please, Ma'am, is this New Zealand or Australia?" (and she tried to curtsey as she spoke--fancy _curtseying_ as you're falling through the air! Do you think you could manage it?) "And what an ignorant little girl she'll think me for asking! No, it'll never do to ask: perhaps I shall see it written up somewhere." Down, down, down. There was nothing else to do, so Alice soon began talking again. "Dinah'll miss me very much to-night, I should think!" (Dinah was the cat.) "I hope they'll remember her saucer of milk at tea-time. Dinah my dear! I wish you were down here with me! There are no mice in the air, I'm afraid, but you might catch a bat, and that's very like a mouse, you know. But do cats eat bats, I wonder?" And here Alice began to get rather sleepy, and went on saying to
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CHAPTER I. Down the Rabbit-Hole Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it,<|quote|>"and what is the use of a book,"</|quote|>thought Alice "without pictures or conversations?" So she was considering in her own mind (as well as she could, for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of making a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and picking the daisies, when suddenly a White Rabbit with pink eyes ran close by her. There was nothing so _very_ remarkable in that; nor did Alice think it so _very_ much out of the way to hear the Rabbit say to itself, "Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be late!" (when she thought it over afterwards, it occurred to her that she ought to have wondered at this, but at the time it all seemed quite natural); but when the Rabbit actually _took a watch out of its waistcoat-pocket_, and looked at it, and then hurried on, Alice started to her feet, for it flashed across her mind that she had never before seen a rabbit with either a waistcoat-pocket, or a watch to take out of it, and burning with curiosity, she ran across the field after it, and fortunately was just in time to see it pop down a large rabbit-hole under the hedge. In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again. The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down a very deep well. Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her and to wonder what was going to happen next. First, she tried to look down and make out what she was coming to, but it was too dark to see anything; then she looked at the sides of the well, and noticed that they were filled with cupboards and book-shelves; here and there she saw maps and pictures hung upon pegs. She took down a jar from one of the shelves as she passed; it was labelled "ORANGE MARMALADE", but to her great disappointment it was empty: she did not like to drop the jar for fear of killing somebody underneath, so managed to put it into one of the cupboards as she fell past it. "Well!" thought Alice to herself, "after such a fall as this, I shall think nothing of tumbling down stairs! How brave they'll all think me at home! Why, I wouldn't say anything about it, even if I fell off the top of the house!" (Which was very likely true.) Down, down, down. Would the fall _never_
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Alices Adventures In Wonderland
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thought Alice
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No speaker
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the use of a book,"<|quote|>thought Alice</|quote|>"without pictures or conversations?" So
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in it, "and what is the use of a book,"<|quote|>thought Alice</|quote|>"without pictures or conversations?" So she was considering in her
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was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, "and what is the use of a book,"<|quote|>thought Alice</|quote|>"without pictures or conversations?" So she was considering in her own mind (as well as she could, for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of making a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and picking the daisies, when suddenly a
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CHAPTER I. Down the Rabbit-Hole Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, "and what is the use of a book,"<|quote|>thought Alice</|quote|>"without pictures or conversations?" So she was considering in her own mind (as well as she could, for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of making a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and picking the daisies, when suddenly a White Rabbit with pink eyes ran close by her. There was nothing so _very_ remarkable in that; nor did Alice think it so _very_ much out of the way to hear the Rabbit say to itself, "Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be late!" (when she thought it over afterwards,
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CHAPTER I. Down the Rabbit-Hole Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, "and what is the use of a book,"<|quote|>thought Alice</|quote|>"without pictures or conversations?" So she was considering in her own mind (as well as she could, for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of making a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and picking the daisies, when suddenly a White Rabbit with pink eyes ran close by her. There was nothing so _very_ remarkable in that; nor did Alice think it so _very_ much out of the way to hear the Rabbit say to itself, "Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be late!" (when she thought it over afterwards, it occurred to her that she ought to have wondered at this, but at the time it all seemed quite natural); but when the Rabbit actually _took a watch out of its waistcoat-pocket_, and looked at it, and then hurried on, Alice started to her feet, for it flashed across her mind that she had never before seen a rabbit with either a waistcoat-pocket, or a watch to take out of it, and burning with curiosity, she ran across the field after it, and fortunately was just in time to see it pop down a large rabbit-hole under the hedge.
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CHAPTER I. Down the Rabbit-Hole Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, "and what is the use of a book,"<|quote|>thought Alice</|quote|>"without pictures or conversations?" So she was considering in her own mind (as well as she could, for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of making a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and picking the daisies, when suddenly a White Rabbit with pink eyes ran close by her. There was nothing so _very_ remarkable in that; nor did Alice think it so _very_ much out of the way to hear the Rabbit say to itself, "Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be late!" (when she thought it over afterwards, it occurred to her that she ought to have wondered at this, but at the time it all seemed quite natural); but when the Rabbit actually _took a watch out of its waistcoat-pocket_, and looked at it, and then hurried on, Alice started to her feet, for it flashed across her mind that she had never before seen a rabbit with either a waistcoat-pocket, or a watch to take out of it, and burning with curiosity, she ran across the field after it, and fortunately was just in time to see it pop down a large rabbit-hole under the hedge. In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again. The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down a very deep well. Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her and to wonder what was going to happen next. First, she tried to look down and make out what she was coming to, but it was too dark to see anything; then she looked at the sides of the well, and noticed that they were filled with cupboards and book-shelves; here and there she saw maps and pictures hung upon pegs. She took down a jar from one of the shelves as she passed; it was labelled "ORANGE MARMALADE", but to her great disappointment it was empty: she did not like to drop the jar for fear of killing somebody underneath, so managed to put it into one of the cupboards as she fell past
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CHAPTER I. Down the Rabbit-Hole Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, "and what is the use of a book,"<|quote|>thought Alice</|quote|>"without pictures or conversations?" So she was considering in her own mind (as well as she could, for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of making a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and picking the daisies, when suddenly a White Rabbit with pink eyes ran close by her. There was nothing so _very_ remarkable in that; nor did Alice think it so _very_ much out of the way to hear the Rabbit say to itself, "Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be late!" (when she thought it over afterwards, it occurred to her that she ought to have wondered at this, but at the time it all seemed quite natural); but when the Rabbit actually _took a watch out of its waistcoat-pocket_, and looked at it, and then hurried on, Alice started to her feet, for it flashed across her mind that she had never before seen a rabbit with either a waistcoat-pocket, or a watch to take out of it, and burning with curiosity, she ran across the field after it, and fortunately was just in time to see it pop down a large rabbit-hole under the hedge. In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again. The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down a very deep well. Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her and to wonder what was going to happen next. First, she tried to look down and make out what she was coming to, but it was too dark to see anything; then she looked at the sides of the well, and noticed that they were filled with cupboards and book-shelves; here and there she saw maps and pictures hung upon pegs. She took down a jar from one of the shelves as she passed; it was labelled "ORANGE MARMALADE", but to her great disappointment it was empty: she did not like to drop the jar for fear of killing somebody underneath, so managed to put it into one of the cupboards as she fell past it. "Well!" thought Alice to herself, "after such a fall as this, I shall think nothing of tumbling down stairs! How brave they'll all think me at home! Why, I wouldn't say anything about it, even if I fell off the top of the house!" (Which was very likely true.) Down, down, down. Would the fall _never_ come to an end? "I wonder how many miles I've fallen by this time?" she said aloud. "I must be getting somewhere near the centre of the earth. Let me see: that would be four thousand miles down, I think--" (for, you see, Alice had learnt several things of this sort in her lessons in the schoolroom, and though this was not a _very_ good opportunity for showing off her knowledge, as there was no one to listen to her, still it was good practice to say it over) "--yes, that's about the right distance--but then I wonder what Latitude or Longitude I've got to?" (Alice had no idea what Latitude was, or Longitude either, but thought they were nice grand words to say.) Presently she began again. "I wonder if I shall fall right _through_ the earth! How funny it'll seem to come out among the people that walk with their heads downward! The Antipathies, I think--" (she was rather glad there _was_ no one listening, this time, as it didn't sound at all the right word) "--but I shall have to ask them what the name of the country is, you know. Please, Ma'am, is this New Zealand or Australia?" (and she tried to curtsey as she spoke--fancy _curtseying_ as you're falling through the air! Do you think you could manage it?) "And what an ignorant little girl she'll think me for asking! No, it'll never do to ask: perhaps I shall see it written up somewhere." Down, down, down. There was nothing else to do, so Alice soon began talking again. "Dinah'll miss me very much to-night, I should think!" (Dinah was the cat.) "I hope they'll remember her saucer of milk at tea-time. Dinah my dear! I wish you were down here with me! There are no mice in the air, I'm afraid, but you might catch a bat, and that's very like a mouse, you know. But do cats eat bats, I wonder?" And here Alice began to get rather sleepy, and went on saying to herself, in
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CHAPTER I. Down the Rabbit-Hole Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, "and what is the use of a book,"<|quote|>thought Alice</|quote|>"without pictures or conversations?" So she was considering in her own mind (as well as she could, for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of making a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and picking the daisies, when suddenly a White Rabbit with pink eyes ran close by her. There was nothing so _very_ remarkable in that; nor did Alice think it so _very_ much out of the way to hear the Rabbit say to itself, "Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be late!" (when she thought it over afterwards, it occurred to her that she ought to have wondered at this, but at the time it all seemed quite natural); but when the Rabbit actually _took a watch out of its waistcoat-pocket_, and looked at it, and then hurried on, Alice started to her feet, for it flashed across her mind that she had never before seen a rabbit with either a waistcoat-pocket, or a watch to take out of it, and burning with curiosity, she ran across the field after it, and fortunately was just in time to see it pop down a large rabbit-hole under the hedge. In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again. The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down a very deep well. Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her and to wonder what was going to happen next. First, she tried to look down and make out what she was coming to, but it was too dark to see anything; then she looked at the sides of the well, and noticed that they were filled with cupboards and book-shelves; here and there she saw maps and pictures hung upon pegs. She took down a jar from one of the shelves as she passed; it was labelled "ORANGE MARMALADE", but to her great disappointment it was empty: she did not like to drop the jar for fear of killing somebody underneath, so managed to put it into one of the cupboards as she fell past it. "Well!" thought Alice to herself, "after such a fall as this, I shall think nothing of tumbling down stairs! How brave they'll all think me at home! Why, I wouldn't say anything about it, even if I fell off the top of the house!" (Which was very likely true.) Down, down, down. Would the fall _never_ come to an end? "I wonder how many miles I've fallen by this time?" she said aloud. "I must be getting somewhere near the centre of the earth. Let me see: that would be four thousand miles down, I think--" (for, you see, Alice had learnt several things of this sort in her lessons in the schoolroom, and though this was not a _very_ good opportunity for showing off her
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Alices Adventures In Wonderland
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