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"No, no, Jem. I must get home." | Don Lavington | while I ask, Mas' Don."<|quote|>"No, no, Jem. I must get home."</|quote|>"We've stood by one another, | knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don."<|quote|>"No, no, Jem. I must get home."</|quote|>"We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a | warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don."<|quote|>"No, no, Jem. I must get home."</|quote|>"We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make | brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don."<|quote|>"No, no, Jem. I must get home."</|quote|>"We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, | if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don."<|quote|>"No, no, Jem. I must get home."</|quote|>"We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up | a game! Prisoners! Cat-o'-nine tails, or hanging." "Silence, you scoundrel!" roared the officer. "Forward with these prisoners." Mike and his companions were marched on out of hearing, and then, after a turn or two, the officer spoke. "It is true then, my lads, you deserted your ship?" "I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship," said Don firmly. "Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue." "Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?" cried Gordon warmly-- "as brave, true fellows as ever stepped." "I can believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don."<|quote|>"No, no, Jem. I must get home."</|quote|>"We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've | I have fallen upon you by accident, and I have you safe." "Norfolk Island! Where's Norfolk Island, mate?" said Mike coolly. "Never heard o' no such place," said his vilest-looking companion, gruffly. "Memory's short, perhaps," said the officer. "But convicts; we're not convicts," growled Mike. "Gentlemen, p'r'aps, on your travels?" "Yes, that's it," said Mike with effrontery. "Ah! Well then, I shall have to take you on beard His Majesty's ship _Vixen_, where you will probably be hung at the yard-arm for inciting the ignorant Maoris to attack peaceful settlers. Forward, my lads!" "Here stop!" roared Mike with a savage grin. "What for?" said the officer sternly. "Arn't you going to take them, too?" "Take whom--the Maoris? No; but for you they would have let these people be in peace. Forward!" "No, no; I mean them two," said Mike savagely, as he pointed-- "them two: Don Lavington and Jem Wimble." "Halt!" cried the officer. "Do you know these men?" he said suspiciously. "There, I told you so, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "I know that man," said Don firmly. "I only know the others by their making us prisoners out in the bush." "Where did you know him?" said the officer-- "Norfolk Island?" "No, sir; at Bristol. He worked as labourer in my uncle's yard." "That's right enough," said Mike; "and him and Jem Wimble was pressed, and went to sea." "Ay, ay!" said the officer quickly. "And they deserted, and took to the bush." "Hah!" ejaculated the officer. "From the sloop of war. The captain asked us to keep an eye open for two lads who had deserted." "Hor--hor--hor!" laughed Mike maliciously; "and now you've got 'em; Mr Gentleman Don and Master Jemmy Wimble." "If your hands warn't tied," cried Jem fiercely, "I'd punch your ugly head!" "Is this true, young man?" said the officer sternly. "Did you desert from His Majesty's sloop?" Don was silent for a moment, and then stepped forward boldly. "Yes!" he said. "Ah, Mas' Don, you've done it now," whispered Jem. "I was cruelly seized, beaten, and dragged away from my home, and Jem here from his young wife. On board ship we were ill-used and persecuted; and I'm not ashamed to own it, I did leave the ship." "Yes, and so did I!" said Jem stoutly. "Humph! Then I'm afraid you will have to go with me as prisoners!" said the officer. "Hor--hor--hor! Here's a game! Prisoners! Cat-o'-nine tails, or hanging." "Silence, you scoundrel!" roared the officer. "Forward with these prisoners." Mike and his companions were marched on out of hearing, and then, after a turn or two, the officer spoke. "It is true then, my lads, you deserted your ship?" "I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship," said Don firmly. "Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue." "Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?" cried Gordon warmly-- "as brave, true fellows as ever stepped." "I can believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don."<|quote|>"No, no, Jem. I must get home."</|quote|>"We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, | will not take them as prisoners, sir?" cried Gordon warmly-- "as brave, true fellows as ever stepped." "I can believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don."<|quote|>"No, no, Jem. I must get home."</|quote|>"We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await | Don Lavington |
"We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." | Jem Wimble | Jem. I must get home."<|quote|>"We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now."</|quote|>"I'll stay, Jem," said Don. | ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home."<|quote|>"We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now."</|quote|>"I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a | Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home."<|quote|>"We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now."</|quote|>"I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as | of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home."<|quote|>"We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now."</|quote|>"I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's | to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home."<|quote|>"We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now."</|quote|>"I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the | "Silence, you scoundrel!" roared the officer. "Forward with these prisoners." Mike and his companions were marched on out of hearing, and then, after a turn or two, the officer spoke. "It is true then, my lads, you deserted your ship?" "I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship," said Don firmly. "Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue." "Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?" cried Gordon warmly-- "as brave, true fellows as ever stepped." "I can believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home."<|quote|>"We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now."</|quote|>"I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well | and I have you safe." "Norfolk Island! Where's Norfolk Island, mate?" said Mike coolly. "Never heard o' no such place," said his vilest-looking companion, gruffly. "Memory's short, perhaps," said the officer. "But convicts; we're not convicts," growled Mike. "Gentlemen, p'r'aps, on your travels?" "Yes, that's it," said Mike with effrontery. "Ah! Well then, I shall have to take you on beard His Majesty's ship _Vixen_, where you will probably be hung at the yard-arm for inciting the ignorant Maoris to attack peaceful settlers. Forward, my lads!" "Here stop!" roared Mike with a savage grin. "What for?" said the officer sternly. "Arn't you going to take them, too?" "Take whom--the Maoris? No; but for you they would have let these people be in peace. Forward!" "No, no; I mean them two," said Mike savagely, as he pointed-- "them two: Don Lavington and Jem Wimble." "Halt!" cried the officer. "Do you know these men?" he said suspiciously. "There, I told you so, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "I know that man," said Don firmly. "I only know the others by their making us prisoners out in the bush." "Where did you know him?" said the officer-- "Norfolk Island?" "No, sir; at Bristol. He worked as labourer in my uncle's yard." "That's right enough," said Mike; "and him and Jem Wimble was pressed, and went to sea." "Ay, ay!" said the officer quickly. "And they deserted, and took to the bush." "Hah!" ejaculated the officer. "From the sloop of war. The captain asked us to keep an eye open for two lads who had deserted." "Hor--hor--hor!" laughed Mike maliciously; "and now you've got 'em; Mr Gentleman Don and Master Jemmy Wimble." "If your hands warn't tied," cried Jem fiercely, "I'd punch your ugly head!" "Is this true, young man?" said the officer sternly. "Did you desert from His Majesty's sloop?" Don was silent for a moment, and then stepped forward boldly. "Yes!" he said. "Ah, Mas' Don, you've done it now," whispered Jem. "I was cruelly seized, beaten, and dragged away from my home, and Jem here from his young wife. On board ship we were ill-used and persecuted; and I'm not ashamed to own it, I did leave the ship." "Yes, and so did I!" said Jem stoutly. "Humph! Then I'm afraid you will have to go with me as prisoners!" said the officer. "Hor--hor--hor! Here's a game! Prisoners! Cat-o'-nine tails, or hanging." "Silence, you scoundrel!" roared the officer. "Forward with these prisoners." Mike and his companions were marched on out of hearing, and then, after a turn or two, the officer spoke. "It is true then, my lads, you deserted your ship?" "I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship," said Don firmly. "Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue." "Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?" cried Gordon warmly-- "as brave, true fellows as ever stepped." "I can believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home."<|quote|>"We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now."</|quote|>"I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a | my lads, you deserted your ship?" "I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship," said Don firmly. "Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue." "Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?" cried Gordon warmly-- "as brave, true fellows as ever stepped." "I can believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home."<|quote|>"We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now."</|quote|>"I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn | Don Lavington |
"I'll stay, Jem," | Don Lavington | Don't forsake your mate now."<|quote|>"I'll stay, Jem,"</|quote|>said Don. "Mas' Don, you | at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now."<|quote|>"I'll stay, Jem,"</|quote|>said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried | "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now."<|quote|>"I'll stay, Jem,"</|quote|>said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate | their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now."<|quote|>"I'll stay, Jem,"</|quote|>said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had | from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now."<|quote|>"I'll stay, Jem,"</|quote|>said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was | after a turn or two, the officer spoke. "It is true then, my lads, you deserted your ship?" "I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship," said Don firmly. "Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue." "Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?" cried Gordon warmly-- "as brave, true fellows as ever stepped." "I can believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now."<|quote|>"I'll stay, Jem,"</|quote|>said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, | vilest-looking companion, gruffly. "Memory's short, perhaps," said the officer. "But convicts; we're not convicts," growled Mike. "Gentlemen, p'r'aps, on your travels?" "Yes, that's it," said Mike with effrontery. "Ah! Well then, I shall have to take you on beard His Majesty's ship _Vixen_, where you will probably be hung at the yard-arm for inciting the ignorant Maoris to attack peaceful settlers. Forward, my lads!" "Here stop!" roared Mike with a savage grin. "What for?" said the officer sternly. "Arn't you going to take them, too?" "Take whom--the Maoris? No; but for you they would have let these people be in peace. Forward!" "No, no; I mean them two," said Mike savagely, as he pointed-- "them two: Don Lavington and Jem Wimble." "Halt!" cried the officer. "Do you know these men?" he said suspiciously. "There, I told you so, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "I know that man," said Don firmly. "I only know the others by their making us prisoners out in the bush." "Where did you know him?" said the officer-- "Norfolk Island?" "No, sir; at Bristol. He worked as labourer in my uncle's yard." "That's right enough," said Mike; "and him and Jem Wimble was pressed, and went to sea." "Ay, ay!" said the officer quickly. "And they deserted, and took to the bush." "Hah!" ejaculated the officer. "From the sloop of war. The captain asked us to keep an eye open for two lads who had deserted." "Hor--hor--hor!" laughed Mike maliciously; "and now you've got 'em; Mr Gentleman Don and Master Jemmy Wimble." "If your hands warn't tied," cried Jem fiercely, "I'd punch your ugly head!" "Is this true, young man?" said the officer sternly. "Did you desert from His Majesty's sloop?" Don was silent for a moment, and then stepped forward boldly. "Yes!" he said. "Ah, Mas' Don, you've done it now," whispered Jem. "I was cruelly seized, beaten, and dragged away from my home, and Jem here from his young wife. On board ship we were ill-used and persecuted; and I'm not ashamed to own it, I did leave the ship." "Yes, and so did I!" said Jem stoutly. "Humph! Then I'm afraid you will have to go with me as prisoners!" said the officer. "Hor--hor--hor! Here's a game! Prisoners! Cat-o'-nine tails, or hanging." "Silence, you scoundrel!" roared the officer. "Forward with these prisoners." Mike and his companions were marched on out of hearing, and then, after a turn or two, the officer spoke. "It is true then, my lads, you deserted your ship?" "I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship," said Don firmly. "Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue." "Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?" cried Gordon warmly-- "as brave, true fellows as ever stepped." "I can believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now."<|quote|>"I'll stay, Jem,"</|quote|>said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my | "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now."<|quote|>"I'll stay, Jem,"</|quote|>said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. | Don Lavington |
said Don. | No speaker | mate now." "I'll stay, Jem,"<|quote|>said Don.</|quote|>"Mas' Don, you are a | on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem,"<|quote|>said Don.</|quote|>"Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would | 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem,"<|quote|>said Don.</|quote|>"Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched | been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem,"<|quote|>said Don.</|quote|>"Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at | elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem,"<|quote|>said Don.</|quote|>"Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by | or two, the officer spoke. "It is true then, my lads, you deserted your ship?" "I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship," said Don firmly. "Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue." "Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?" cried Gordon warmly-- "as brave, true fellows as ever stepped." "I can believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem,"<|quote|>said Don.</|quote|>"Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," | "Memory's short, perhaps," said the officer. "But convicts; we're not convicts," growled Mike. "Gentlemen, p'r'aps, on your travels?" "Yes, that's it," said Mike with effrontery. "Ah! Well then, I shall have to take you on beard His Majesty's ship _Vixen_, where you will probably be hung at the yard-arm for inciting the ignorant Maoris to attack peaceful settlers. Forward, my lads!" "Here stop!" roared Mike with a savage grin. "What for?" said the officer sternly. "Arn't you going to take them, too?" "Take whom--the Maoris? No; but for you they would have let these people be in peace. Forward!" "No, no; I mean them two," said Mike savagely, as he pointed-- "them two: Don Lavington and Jem Wimble." "Halt!" cried the officer. "Do you know these men?" he said suspiciously. "There, I told you so, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "I know that man," said Don firmly. "I only know the others by their making us prisoners out in the bush." "Where did you know him?" said the officer-- "Norfolk Island?" "No, sir; at Bristol. He worked as labourer in my uncle's yard." "That's right enough," said Mike; "and him and Jem Wimble was pressed, and went to sea." "Ay, ay!" said the officer quickly. "And they deserted, and took to the bush." "Hah!" ejaculated the officer. "From the sloop of war. The captain asked us to keep an eye open for two lads who had deserted." "Hor--hor--hor!" laughed Mike maliciously; "and now you've got 'em; Mr Gentleman Don and Master Jemmy Wimble." "If your hands warn't tied," cried Jem fiercely, "I'd punch your ugly head!" "Is this true, young man?" said the officer sternly. "Did you desert from His Majesty's sloop?" Don was silent for a moment, and then stepped forward boldly. "Yes!" he said. "Ah, Mas' Don, you've done it now," whispered Jem. "I was cruelly seized, beaten, and dragged away from my home, and Jem here from his young wife. On board ship we were ill-used and persecuted; and I'm not ashamed to own it, I did leave the ship." "Yes, and so did I!" said Jem stoutly. "Humph! Then I'm afraid you will have to go with me as prisoners!" said the officer. "Hor--hor--hor! Here's a game! Prisoners! Cat-o'-nine tails, or hanging." "Silence, you scoundrel!" roared the officer. "Forward with these prisoners." Mike and his companions were marched on out of hearing, and then, after a turn or two, the officer spoke. "It is true then, my lads, you deserted your ship?" "I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship," said Don firmly. "Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue." "Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?" cried Gordon warmly-- "as brave, true fellows as ever stepped." "I can believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem,"<|quote|>said Don.</|quote|>"Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." | that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem,"<|quote|>said Don.</|quote|>"Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to | Don Lavington |
"Mas' Don, you are a good one!" | Jem Wimble | "I'll stay, Jem," said Don.<|quote|>"Mas' Don, you are a good one!"</|quote|>cried Jem. "Would you mind | Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don.<|quote|>"Mas' Don, you are a good one!"</|quote|>cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My | I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don.<|quote|>"Mas' Don, you are a good one!"</|quote|>cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- | Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don.<|quote|>"Mas' Don, you are a good one!"</|quote|>cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, | stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don.<|quote|>"Mas' Don, you are a good one!"</|quote|>cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour | the officer spoke. "It is true then, my lads, you deserted your ship?" "I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship," said Don firmly. "Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue." "Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?" cried Gordon warmly-- "as brave, true fellows as ever stepped." "I can believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don.<|quote|>"Mas' Don, you are a good one!"</|quote|>cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that | perhaps," said the officer. "But convicts; we're not convicts," growled Mike. "Gentlemen, p'r'aps, on your travels?" "Yes, that's it," said Mike with effrontery. "Ah! Well then, I shall have to take you on beard His Majesty's ship _Vixen_, where you will probably be hung at the yard-arm for inciting the ignorant Maoris to attack peaceful settlers. Forward, my lads!" "Here stop!" roared Mike with a savage grin. "What for?" said the officer sternly. "Arn't you going to take them, too?" "Take whom--the Maoris? No; but for you they would have let these people be in peace. Forward!" "No, no; I mean them two," said Mike savagely, as he pointed-- "them two: Don Lavington and Jem Wimble." "Halt!" cried the officer. "Do you know these men?" he said suspiciously. "There, I told you so, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "I know that man," said Don firmly. "I only know the others by their making us prisoners out in the bush." "Where did you know him?" said the officer-- "Norfolk Island?" "No, sir; at Bristol. He worked as labourer in my uncle's yard." "That's right enough," said Mike; "and him and Jem Wimble was pressed, and went to sea." "Ay, ay!" said the officer quickly. "And they deserted, and took to the bush." "Hah!" ejaculated the officer. "From the sloop of war. The captain asked us to keep an eye open for two lads who had deserted." "Hor--hor--hor!" laughed Mike maliciously; "and now you've got 'em; Mr Gentleman Don and Master Jemmy Wimble." "If your hands warn't tied," cried Jem fiercely, "I'd punch your ugly head!" "Is this true, young man?" said the officer sternly. "Did you desert from His Majesty's sloop?" Don was silent for a moment, and then stepped forward boldly. "Yes!" he said. "Ah, Mas' Don, you've done it now," whispered Jem. "I was cruelly seized, beaten, and dragged away from my home, and Jem here from his young wife. On board ship we were ill-used and persecuted; and I'm not ashamed to own it, I did leave the ship." "Yes, and so did I!" said Jem stoutly. "Humph! Then I'm afraid you will have to go with me as prisoners!" said the officer. "Hor--hor--hor! Here's a game! Prisoners! Cat-o'-nine tails, or hanging." "Silence, you scoundrel!" roared the officer. "Forward with these prisoners." Mike and his companions were marched on out of hearing, and then, after a turn or two, the officer spoke. "It is true then, my lads, you deserted your ship?" "I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship," said Don firmly. "Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue." "Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?" cried Gordon warmly-- "as brave, true fellows as ever stepped." "I can believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don.<|quote|>"Mas' Don, you are a good one!"</|quote|>cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don.<|quote|>"Mas' Don, you are a good one!"</|quote|>cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the | Don Lavington |
cried Jem. | No speaker | you are a good one!"<|quote|>cried Jem.</|quote|>"Would you mind pulling the | Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!"<|quote|>cried Jem.</|quote|>"Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes | where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!"<|quote|>cried Jem.</|quote|>"Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you | his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!"<|quote|>cried Jem.</|quote|>"Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his | Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!"<|quote|>cried Jem.</|quote|>"Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, | my lads, you deserted your ship?" "I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship," said Don firmly. "Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue." "Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?" cried Gordon warmly-- "as brave, true fellows as ever stepped." "I can believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!"<|quote|>cried Jem.</|quote|>"Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't | not convicts," growled Mike. "Gentlemen, p'r'aps, on your travels?" "Yes, that's it," said Mike with effrontery. "Ah! Well then, I shall have to take you on beard His Majesty's ship _Vixen_, where you will probably be hung at the yard-arm for inciting the ignorant Maoris to attack peaceful settlers. Forward, my lads!" "Here stop!" roared Mike with a savage grin. "What for?" said the officer sternly. "Arn't you going to take them, too?" "Take whom--the Maoris? No; but for you they would have let these people be in peace. Forward!" "No, no; I mean them two," said Mike savagely, as he pointed-- "them two: Don Lavington and Jem Wimble." "Halt!" cried the officer. "Do you know these men?" he said suspiciously. "There, I told you so, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "I know that man," said Don firmly. "I only know the others by their making us prisoners out in the bush." "Where did you know him?" said the officer-- "Norfolk Island?" "No, sir; at Bristol. He worked as labourer in my uncle's yard." "That's right enough," said Mike; "and him and Jem Wimble was pressed, and went to sea." "Ay, ay!" said the officer quickly. "And they deserted, and took to the bush." "Hah!" ejaculated the officer. "From the sloop of war. The captain asked us to keep an eye open for two lads who had deserted." "Hor--hor--hor!" laughed Mike maliciously; "and now you've got 'em; Mr Gentleman Don and Master Jemmy Wimble." "If your hands warn't tied," cried Jem fiercely, "I'd punch your ugly head!" "Is this true, young man?" said the officer sternly. "Did you desert from His Majesty's sloop?" Don was silent for a moment, and then stepped forward boldly. "Yes!" he said. "Ah, Mas' Don, you've done it now," whispered Jem. "I was cruelly seized, beaten, and dragged away from my home, and Jem here from his young wife. On board ship we were ill-used and persecuted; and I'm not ashamed to own it, I did leave the ship." "Yes, and so did I!" said Jem stoutly. "Humph! Then I'm afraid you will have to go with me as prisoners!" said the officer. "Hor--hor--hor! Here's a game! Prisoners! Cat-o'-nine tails, or hanging." "Silence, you scoundrel!" roared the officer. "Forward with these prisoners." Mike and his companions were marched on out of hearing, and then, after a turn or two, the officer spoke. "It is true then, my lads, you deserted your ship?" "I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship," said Don firmly. "Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue." "Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?" cried Gordon warmly-- "as brave, true fellows as ever stepped." "I can believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!"<|quote|>cried Jem.</|quote|>"Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!"<|quote|>cried Jem.</|quote|>"Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. | Don Lavington |
"Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." | Jem Wimble | a good one!" cried Jem.<|quote|>"Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise."</|quote|>Don gave the bell a | Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem.<|quote|>"Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise."</|quote|>Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked | by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem.<|quote|>"Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise."</|quote|>Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent | arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem.<|quote|>"Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise."</|quote|>Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap | more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem.<|quote|>"Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise."</|quote|>Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he | you deserted your ship?" "I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship," said Don firmly. "Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue." "Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?" cried Gordon warmly-- "as brave, true fellows as ever stepped." "I can believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem.<|quote|>"Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise."</|quote|>Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, | growled Mike. "Gentlemen, p'r'aps, on your travels?" "Yes, that's it," said Mike with effrontery. "Ah! Well then, I shall have to take you on beard His Majesty's ship _Vixen_, where you will probably be hung at the yard-arm for inciting the ignorant Maoris to attack peaceful settlers. Forward, my lads!" "Here stop!" roared Mike with a savage grin. "What for?" said the officer sternly. "Arn't you going to take them, too?" "Take whom--the Maoris? No; but for you they would have let these people be in peace. Forward!" "No, no; I mean them two," said Mike savagely, as he pointed-- "them two: Don Lavington and Jem Wimble." "Halt!" cried the officer. "Do you know these men?" he said suspiciously. "There, I told you so, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "I know that man," said Don firmly. "I only know the others by their making us prisoners out in the bush." "Where did you know him?" said the officer-- "Norfolk Island?" "No, sir; at Bristol. He worked as labourer in my uncle's yard." "That's right enough," said Mike; "and him and Jem Wimble was pressed, and went to sea." "Ay, ay!" said the officer quickly. "And they deserted, and took to the bush." "Hah!" ejaculated the officer. "From the sloop of war. The captain asked us to keep an eye open for two lads who had deserted." "Hor--hor--hor!" laughed Mike maliciously; "and now you've got 'em; Mr Gentleman Don and Master Jemmy Wimble." "If your hands warn't tied," cried Jem fiercely, "I'd punch your ugly head!" "Is this true, young man?" said the officer sternly. "Did you desert from His Majesty's sloop?" Don was silent for a moment, and then stepped forward boldly. "Yes!" he said. "Ah, Mas' Don, you've done it now," whispered Jem. "I was cruelly seized, beaten, and dragged away from my home, and Jem here from his young wife. On board ship we were ill-used and persecuted; and I'm not ashamed to own it, I did leave the ship." "Yes, and so did I!" said Jem stoutly. "Humph! Then I'm afraid you will have to go with me as prisoners!" said the officer. "Hor--hor--hor! Here's a game! Prisoners! Cat-o'-nine tails, or hanging." "Silence, you scoundrel!" roared the officer. "Forward with these prisoners." Mike and his companions were marched on out of hearing, and then, after a turn or two, the officer spoke. "It is true then, my lads, you deserted your ship?" "I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship," said Don firmly. "Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue." "Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?" cried Gordon warmly-- "as brave, true fellows as ever stepped." "I can believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem.<|quote|>"Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise."</|quote|>Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem.<|quote|>"Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise."</|quote|>Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too | Don Lavington |
Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- | No speaker | I shall make a noise."<|quote|>Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,--</|quote|>"What d'you mean by ringing | gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise."<|quote|>Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,--</|quote|>"What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave | by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise."<|quote|>Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,--</|quote|>"What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, | to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise."<|quote|>Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,--</|quote|>"What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was | the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise."<|quote|>Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,--</|quote|>"What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had | Don firmly. "Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue." "Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?" cried Gordon warmly-- "as brave, true fellows as ever stepped." "I can believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise."<|quote|>Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,--</|quote|>"What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope | then, I shall have to take you on beard His Majesty's ship _Vixen_, where you will probably be hung at the yard-arm for inciting the ignorant Maoris to attack peaceful settlers. Forward, my lads!" "Here stop!" roared Mike with a savage grin. "What for?" said the officer sternly. "Arn't you going to take them, too?" "Take whom--the Maoris? No; but for you they would have let these people be in peace. Forward!" "No, no; I mean them two," said Mike savagely, as he pointed-- "them two: Don Lavington and Jem Wimble." "Halt!" cried the officer. "Do you know these men?" he said suspiciously. "There, I told you so, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "I know that man," said Don firmly. "I only know the others by their making us prisoners out in the bush." "Where did you know him?" said the officer-- "Norfolk Island?" "No, sir; at Bristol. He worked as labourer in my uncle's yard." "That's right enough," said Mike; "and him and Jem Wimble was pressed, and went to sea." "Ay, ay!" said the officer quickly. "And they deserted, and took to the bush." "Hah!" ejaculated the officer. "From the sloop of war. The captain asked us to keep an eye open for two lads who had deserted." "Hor--hor--hor!" laughed Mike maliciously; "and now you've got 'em; Mr Gentleman Don and Master Jemmy Wimble." "If your hands warn't tied," cried Jem fiercely, "I'd punch your ugly head!" "Is this true, young man?" said the officer sternly. "Did you desert from His Majesty's sloop?" Don was silent for a moment, and then stepped forward boldly. "Yes!" he said. "Ah, Mas' Don, you've done it now," whispered Jem. "I was cruelly seized, beaten, and dragged away from my home, and Jem here from his young wife. On board ship we were ill-used and persecuted; and I'm not ashamed to own it, I did leave the ship." "Yes, and so did I!" said Jem stoutly. "Humph! Then I'm afraid you will have to go with me as prisoners!" said the officer. "Hor--hor--hor! Here's a game! Prisoners! Cat-o'-nine tails, or hanging." "Silence, you scoundrel!" roared the officer. "Forward with these prisoners." Mike and his companions were marched on out of hearing, and then, after a turn or two, the officer spoke. "It is true then, my lads, you deserted your ship?" "I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship," said Don firmly. "Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue." "Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?" cried Gordon warmly-- "as brave, true fellows as ever stepped." "I can believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise."<|quote|>Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,--</|quote|>"What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise."<|quote|>Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,--</|quote|>"What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, | Don Lavington |
"What d'you mean by ringing like--" | Mrs. Wimble | and a shrill voice began,--<|quote|>"What d'you mean by ringing like--"</|quote|>"Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem | gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,--<|quote|>"What d'you mean by ringing like--"</|quote|>"Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, | cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,--<|quote|>"What d'you mean by ringing like--"</|quote|>"Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he | where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,--<|quote|>"What d'you mean by ringing like--"</|quote|>"Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, | after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,--<|quote|>"What d'you mean by ringing like--"</|quote|>"Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at | believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,--<|quote|>"What d'you mean by ringing like--"</|quote|>"Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe | my lads!" "Here stop!" roared Mike with a savage grin. "What for?" said the officer sternly. "Arn't you going to take them, too?" "Take whom--the Maoris? No; but for you they would have let these people be in peace. Forward!" "No, no; I mean them two," said Mike savagely, as he pointed-- "them two: Don Lavington and Jem Wimble." "Halt!" cried the officer. "Do you know these men?" he said suspiciously. "There, I told you so, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "I know that man," said Don firmly. "I only know the others by their making us prisoners out in the bush." "Where did you know him?" said the officer-- "Norfolk Island?" "No, sir; at Bristol. He worked as labourer in my uncle's yard." "That's right enough," said Mike; "and him and Jem Wimble was pressed, and went to sea." "Ay, ay!" said the officer quickly. "And they deserted, and took to the bush." "Hah!" ejaculated the officer. "From the sloop of war. The captain asked us to keep an eye open for two lads who had deserted." "Hor--hor--hor!" laughed Mike maliciously; "and now you've got 'em; Mr Gentleman Don and Master Jemmy Wimble." "If your hands warn't tied," cried Jem fiercely, "I'd punch your ugly head!" "Is this true, young man?" said the officer sternly. "Did you desert from His Majesty's sloop?" Don was silent for a moment, and then stepped forward boldly. "Yes!" he said. "Ah, Mas' Don, you've done it now," whispered Jem. "I was cruelly seized, beaten, and dragged away from my home, and Jem here from his young wife. On board ship we were ill-used and persecuted; and I'm not ashamed to own it, I did leave the ship." "Yes, and so did I!" said Jem stoutly. "Humph! Then I'm afraid you will have to go with me as prisoners!" said the officer. "Hor--hor--hor! Here's a game! Prisoners! Cat-o'-nine tails, or hanging." "Silence, you scoundrel!" roared the officer. "Forward with these prisoners." Mike and his companions were marched on out of hearing, and then, after a turn or two, the officer spoke. "It is true then, my lads, you deserted your ship?" "I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship," said Don firmly. "Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue." "Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?" cried Gordon warmly-- "as brave, true fellows as ever stepped." "I can believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,--<|quote|>"What d'you mean by ringing like--"</|quote|>"Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | officer sternly. "Did you desert from His Majesty's sloop?" Don was silent for a moment, and then stepped forward boldly. "Yes!" he said. "Ah, Mas' Don, you've done it now," whispered Jem. "I was cruelly seized, beaten, and dragged away from my home, and Jem here from his young wife. On board ship we were ill-used and persecuted; and I'm not ashamed to own it, I did leave the ship." "Yes, and so did I!" said Jem stoutly. "Humph! Then I'm afraid you will have to go with me as prisoners!" said the officer. "Hor--hor--hor! Here's a game! Prisoners! Cat-o'-nine tails, or hanging." "Silence, you scoundrel!" roared the officer. "Forward with these prisoners." Mike and his companions were marched on out of hearing, and then, after a turn or two, the officer spoke. "It is true then, my lads, you deserted your ship?" "I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship," said Don firmly. "Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue." "Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?" cried Gordon warmly-- "as brave, true fellows as ever stepped." "I can believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,--<|quote|>"What d'you mean by ringing like--"</|quote|>"Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former | Don Lavington |
"Sally!" | Jem Wimble | d'you mean by ringing like--"<|quote|>"Sally!"</|quote|>"Jem!" Don gave Jem a | a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--"<|quote|>"Sally!"</|quote|>"Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which | the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--"<|quote|>"Sally!"</|quote|>"Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took | ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--"<|quote|>"Sally!"</|quote|>"Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while | Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--"<|quote|>"Sally!"</|quote|>"Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads | discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--"<|quote|>"Sally!"</|quote|>"Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that | with a savage grin. "What for?" said the officer sternly. "Arn't you going to take them, too?" "Take whom--the Maoris? No; but for you they would have let these people be in peace. Forward!" "No, no; I mean them two," said Mike savagely, as he pointed-- "them two: Don Lavington and Jem Wimble." "Halt!" cried the officer. "Do you know these men?" he said suspiciously. "There, I told you so, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "I know that man," said Don firmly. "I only know the others by their making us prisoners out in the bush." "Where did you know him?" said the officer-- "Norfolk Island?" "No, sir; at Bristol. He worked as labourer in my uncle's yard." "That's right enough," said Mike; "and him and Jem Wimble was pressed, and went to sea." "Ay, ay!" said the officer quickly. "And they deserted, and took to the bush." "Hah!" ejaculated the officer. "From the sloop of war. The captain asked us to keep an eye open for two lads who had deserted." "Hor--hor--hor!" laughed Mike maliciously; "and now you've got 'em; Mr Gentleman Don and Master Jemmy Wimble." "If your hands warn't tied," cried Jem fiercely, "I'd punch your ugly head!" "Is this true, young man?" said the officer sternly. "Did you desert from His Majesty's sloop?" Don was silent for a moment, and then stepped forward boldly. "Yes!" he said. "Ah, Mas' Don, you've done it now," whispered Jem. "I was cruelly seized, beaten, and dragged away from my home, and Jem here from his young wife. On board ship we were ill-used and persecuted; and I'm not ashamed to own it, I did leave the ship." "Yes, and so did I!" said Jem stoutly. "Humph! Then I'm afraid you will have to go with me as prisoners!" said the officer. "Hor--hor--hor! Here's a game! Prisoners! Cat-o'-nine tails, or hanging." "Silence, you scoundrel!" roared the officer. "Forward with these prisoners." Mike and his companions were marched on out of hearing, and then, after a turn or two, the officer spoke. "It is true then, my lads, you deserted your ship?" "I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship," said Don firmly. "Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue." "Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?" cried Gordon warmly-- "as brave, true fellows as ever stepped." "I can believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--"<|quote|>"Sally!"</|quote|>"Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--"<|quote|>"Sally!"</|quote|>"Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was | Don Lavington |
"Jem!" | Mrs. Wimble | mean by ringing like--" "Sally!"<|quote|>"Jem!"</|quote|>Don gave Jem a push | shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!"<|quote|>"Jem!"</|quote|>Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent | bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!"<|quote|>"Jem!"</|quote|>Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold | Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!"<|quote|>"Jem!"</|quote|>Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two | two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!"<|quote|>"Jem!"</|quote|>Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," | must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!"<|quote|>"Jem!"</|quote|>Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I | a savage grin. "What for?" said the officer sternly. "Arn't you going to take them, too?" "Take whom--the Maoris? No; but for you they would have let these people be in peace. Forward!" "No, no; I mean them two," said Mike savagely, as he pointed-- "them two: Don Lavington and Jem Wimble." "Halt!" cried the officer. "Do you know these men?" he said suspiciously. "There, I told you so, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "I know that man," said Don firmly. "I only know the others by their making us prisoners out in the bush." "Where did you know him?" said the officer-- "Norfolk Island?" "No, sir; at Bristol. He worked as labourer in my uncle's yard." "That's right enough," said Mike; "and him and Jem Wimble was pressed, and went to sea." "Ay, ay!" said the officer quickly. "And they deserted, and took to the bush." "Hah!" ejaculated the officer. "From the sloop of war. The captain asked us to keep an eye open for two lads who had deserted." "Hor--hor--hor!" laughed Mike maliciously; "and now you've got 'em; Mr Gentleman Don and Master Jemmy Wimble." "If your hands warn't tied," cried Jem fiercely, "I'd punch your ugly head!" "Is this true, young man?" said the officer sternly. "Did you desert from His Majesty's sloop?" Don was silent for a moment, and then stepped forward boldly. "Yes!" he said. "Ah, Mas' Don, you've done it now," whispered Jem. "I was cruelly seized, beaten, and dragged away from my home, and Jem here from his young wife. On board ship we were ill-used and persecuted; and I'm not ashamed to own it, I did leave the ship." "Yes, and so did I!" said Jem stoutly. "Humph! Then I'm afraid you will have to go with me as prisoners!" said the officer. "Hor--hor--hor! Here's a game! Prisoners! Cat-o'-nine tails, or hanging." "Silence, you scoundrel!" roared the officer. "Forward with these prisoners." Mike and his companions were marched on out of hearing, and then, after a turn or two, the officer spoke. "It is true then, my lads, you deserted your ship?" "I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship," said Don firmly. "Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue." "Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?" cried Gordon warmly-- "as brave, true fellows as ever stepped." "I can believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!"<|quote|>"Jem!"</|quote|>Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!"<|quote|>"Jem!"</|quote|>Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on | Don Lavington |
Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. | No speaker | by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!"<|quote|>Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door.</|quote|>There was a click; the | voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!"<|quote|>Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door.</|quote|>There was a click; the door was thrown open by | gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!"<|quote|>Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door.</|quote|>There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The | Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!"<|quote|>Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door.</|quote|>There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed | sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!"<|quote|>Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door.</|quote|>There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to | be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!"<|quote|>Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door.</|quote|>There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time | savage grin. "What for?" said the officer sternly. "Arn't you going to take them, too?" "Take whom--the Maoris? No; but for you they would have let these people be in peace. Forward!" "No, no; I mean them two," said Mike savagely, as he pointed-- "them two: Don Lavington and Jem Wimble." "Halt!" cried the officer. "Do you know these men?" he said suspiciously. "There, I told you so, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "I know that man," said Don firmly. "I only know the others by their making us prisoners out in the bush." "Where did you know him?" said the officer-- "Norfolk Island?" "No, sir; at Bristol. He worked as labourer in my uncle's yard." "That's right enough," said Mike; "and him and Jem Wimble was pressed, and went to sea." "Ay, ay!" said the officer quickly. "And they deserted, and took to the bush." "Hah!" ejaculated the officer. "From the sloop of war. The captain asked us to keep an eye open for two lads who had deserted." "Hor--hor--hor!" laughed Mike maliciously; "and now you've got 'em; Mr Gentleman Don and Master Jemmy Wimble." "If your hands warn't tied," cried Jem fiercely, "I'd punch your ugly head!" "Is this true, young man?" said the officer sternly. "Did you desert from His Majesty's sloop?" Don was silent for a moment, and then stepped forward boldly. "Yes!" he said. "Ah, Mas' Don, you've done it now," whispered Jem. "I was cruelly seized, beaten, and dragged away from my home, and Jem here from his young wife. On board ship we were ill-used and persecuted; and I'm not ashamed to own it, I did leave the ship." "Yes, and so did I!" said Jem stoutly. "Humph! Then I'm afraid you will have to go with me as prisoners!" said the officer. "Hor--hor--hor! Here's a game! Prisoners! Cat-o'-nine tails, or hanging." "Silence, you scoundrel!" roared the officer. "Forward with these prisoners." Mike and his companions were marched on out of hearing, and then, after a turn or two, the officer spoke. "It is true then, my lads, you deserted your ship?" "I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship," said Don firmly. "Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue." "Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?" cried Gordon warmly-- "as brave, true fellows as ever stepped." "I can believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!"<|quote|>Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door.</|quote|>There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!"<|quote|>Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door.</|quote|>There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and | Don Lavington |
There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. | No speaker | upon a big front door.<|quote|>There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek.</|quote|>The explanations were in full | comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door.<|quote|>There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek.</|quote|>The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those | gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door.<|quote|>There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek.</|quote|>The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and | when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door.<|quote|>There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek.</|quote|>The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent | Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door.<|quote|>There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek.</|quote|>The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the | serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door.<|quote|>There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek.</|quote|>The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the | so, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "I know that man," said Don firmly. "I only know the others by their making us prisoners out in the bush." "Where did you know him?" said the officer-- "Norfolk Island?" "No, sir; at Bristol. He worked as labourer in my uncle's yard." "That's right enough," said Mike; "and him and Jem Wimble was pressed, and went to sea." "Ay, ay!" said the officer quickly. "And they deserted, and took to the bush." "Hah!" ejaculated the officer. "From the sloop of war. The captain asked us to keep an eye open for two lads who had deserted." "Hor--hor--hor!" laughed Mike maliciously; "and now you've got 'em; Mr Gentleman Don and Master Jemmy Wimble." "If your hands warn't tied," cried Jem fiercely, "I'd punch your ugly head!" "Is this true, young man?" said the officer sternly. "Did you desert from His Majesty's sloop?" Don was silent for a moment, and then stepped forward boldly. "Yes!" he said. "Ah, Mas' Don, you've done it now," whispered Jem. "I was cruelly seized, beaten, and dragged away from my home, and Jem here from his young wife. On board ship we were ill-used and persecuted; and I'm not ashamed to own it, I did leave the ship." "Yes, and so did I!" said Jem stoutly. "Humph! Then I'm afraid you will have to go with me as prisoners!" said the officer. "Hor--hor--hor! Here's a game! Prisoners! Cat-o'-nine tails, or hanging." "Silence, you scoundrel!" roared the officer. "Forward with these prisoners." Mike and his companions were marched on out of hearing, and then, after a turn or two, the officer spoke. "It is true then, my lads, you deserted your ship?" "I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship," said Don firmly. "Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue." "Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?" cried Gordon warmly-- "as brave, true fellows as ever stepped." "I can believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door.<|quote|>There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek.</|quote|>The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door.<|quote|>There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek.</|quote|>The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, | Don Lavington |
The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. | No speaker | kiss placed upon his cheek.<|quote|>The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him.</|quote|>When at last he was | jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek.<|quote|>The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him.</|quote|>When at last he was seen, Don started up and | door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek.<|quote|>The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him.</|quote|>When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to | the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek.<|quote|>The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him.</|quote|>When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of | many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek.<|quote|>The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him.</|quote|>When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as | smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek.<|quote|>The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him.</|quote|>When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was | right enough," said Mike; "and him and Jem Wimble was pressed, and went to sea." "Ay, ay!" said the officer quickly. "And they deserted, and took to the bush." "Hah!" ejaculated the officer. "From the sloop of war. The captain asked us to keep an eye open for two lads who had deserted." "Hor--hor--hor!" laughed Mike maliciously; "and now you've got 'em; Mr Gentleman Don and Master Jemmy Wimble." "If your hands warn't tied," cried Jem fiercely, "I'd punch your ugly head!" "Is this true, young man?" said the officer sternly. "Did you desert from His Majesty's sloop?" Don was silent for a moment, and then stepped forward boldly. "Yes!" he said. "Ah, Mas' Don, you've done it now," whispered Jem. "I was cruelly seized, beaten, and dragged away from my home, and Jem here from his young wife. On board ship we were ill-used and persecuted; and I'm not ashamed to own it, I did leave the ship." "Yes, and so did I!" said Jem stoutly. "Humph! Then I'm afraid you will have to go with me as prisoners!" said the officer. "Hor--hor--hor! Here's a game! Prisoners! Cat-o'-nine tails, or hanging." "Silence, you scoundrel!" roared the officer. "Forward with these prisoners." Mike and his companions were marched on out of hearing, and then, after a turn or two, the officer spoke. "It is true then, my lads, you deserted your ship?" "I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship," said Don firmly. "Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue." "Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?" cried Gordon warmly-- "as brave, true fellows as ever stepped." "I can believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek.<|quote|>The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him.</|quote|>When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek.<|quote|>The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him.</|quote|>When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, | Don Lavington |
When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. | No speaker | at the group before him.<|quote|>When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand.</|quote|>"Don, my lad," he said | Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him.<|quote|>When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand.</|quote|>"Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want | jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him.<|quote|>When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand.</|quote|>"Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, | most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him.<|quote|>When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand.</|quote|>"Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever | shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him.<|quote|>When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand.</|quote|>"Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of | guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him.<|quote|>When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand.</|quote|>"Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down | asked us to keep an eye open for two lads who had deserted." "Hor--hor--hor!" laughed Mike maliciously; "and now you've got 'em; Mr Gentleman Don and Master Jemmy Wimble." "If your hands warn't tied," cried Jem fiercely, "I'd punch your ugly head!" "Is this true, young man?" said the officer sternly. "Did you desert from His Majesty's sloop?" Don was silent for a moment, and then stepped forward boldly. "Yes!" he said. "Ah, Mas' Don, you've done it now," whispered Jem. "I was cruelly seized, beaten, and dragged away from my home, and Jem here from his young wife. On board ship we were ill-used and persecuted; and I'm not ashamed to own it, I did leave the ship." "Yes, and so did I!" said Jem stoutly. "Humph! Then I'm afraid you will have to go with me as prisoners!" said the officer. "Hor--hor--hor! Here's a game! Prisoners! Cat-o'-nine tails, or hanging." "Silence, you scoundrel!" roared the officer. "Forward with these prisoners." Mike and his companions were marched on out of hearing, and then, after a turn or two, the officer spoke. "It is true then, my lads, you deserted your ship?" "I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship," said Don firmly. "Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue." "Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?" cried Gordon warmly-- "as brave, true fellows as ever stepped." "I can believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him.<|quote|>When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand.</|quote|>"Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him.<|quote|>When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand.</|quote|>"Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, | Don Lavington |
"Don, my lad," | Josiah Christmas | man advanced with extended hand.<|quote|>"Don, my lad,"</|quote|>he said quietly, "I've felt | or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand.<|quote|>"Don, my lad,"</|quote|>he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly | await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand.<|quote|>"Don, my lad,"</|quote|>he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you | his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand.<|quote|>"Don, my lad,"</|quote|>he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" | hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand.<|quote|>"Don, my lad,"</|quote|>he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with | "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand.<|quote|>"Don, my lad,"</|quote|>he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all | a game! Prisoners! Cat-o'-nine tails, or hanging." "Silence, you scoundrel!" roared the officer. "Forward with these prisoners." Mike and his companions were marched on out of hearing, and then, after a turn or two, the officer spoke. "It is true then, my lads, you deserted your ship?" "I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship," said Don firmly. "Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue." "Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?" cried Gordon warmly-- "as brave, true fellows as ever stepped." "I can believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand.<|quote|>"Don, my lad,"</|quote|>he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand.<|quote|>"Don, my lad,"</|quote|>he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps | Don Lavington |
he said quietly, | No speaker | extended hand. "Don, my lad,"<|quote|>he said quietly,</|quote|>"I've felt the want of | the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad,"<|quote|>he said quietly,</|quote|>"I've felt the want of you badly at the office. | on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad,"<|quote|>he said quietly,</|quote|>"I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn | seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad,"<|quote|>he said quietly,</|quote|>"I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, | and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad,"<|quote|>he said quietly,</|quote|>"I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated | I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad,"<|quote|>he said quietly,</|quote|>"I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. | Cat-o'-nine tails, or hanging." "Silence, you scoundrel!" roared the officer. "Forward with these prisoners." Mike and his companions were marched on out of hearing, and then, after a turn or two, the officer spoke. "It is true then, my lads, you deserted your ship?" "I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship," said Don firmly. "Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue." "Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?" cried Gordon warmly-- "as brave, true fellows as ever stepped." "I can believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad,"<|quote|>he said quietly,</|quote|>"I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad,"<|quote|>he said quietly,</|quote|>"I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped | Don Lavington |
"I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." | Josiah Christmas | my lad," he said quietly,<|quote|>"I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back."</|quote|>"I ought to tell you, | advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly,<|quote|>"I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back."</|quote|>"I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all | adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly,<|quote|>"I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back."</|quote|>"I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've | a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly,<|quote|>"I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back."</|quote|>"I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, | up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly,<|quote|>"I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back."</|quote|>"I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in | home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly,<|quote|>"I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back."</|quote|>"I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah | hanging." "Silence, you scoundrel!" roared the officer. "Forward with these prisoners." Mike and his companions were marched on out of hearing, and then, after a turn or two, the officer spoke. "It is true then, my lads, you deserted your ship?" "I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship," said Don firmly. "Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue." "Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?" cried Gordon warmly-- "as brave, true fellows as ever stepped." "I can believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly,<|quote|>"I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back."</|quote|>"I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly,<|quote|>"I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back."</|quote|>"I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not | Don Lavington |
"I ought to tell you, sir--" | Don Lavington | Glad to see you back."<|quote|>"I ought to tell you, sir--"</|quote|>"Ah, well explain all by-and-by, | you badly at the office. Glad to see you back."<|quote|>"I ought to tell you, sir--"</|quote|>"Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old | when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back."<|quote|>"I ought to tell you, sir--"</|quote|>"Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, | should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back."<|quote|>"I ought to tell you, sir--"</|quote|>"Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they | as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back."<|quote|>"I ought to tell you, sir--"</|quote|>"Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, | and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back."<|quote|>"I ought to tell you, sir--"</|quote|>"Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's | were marched on out of hearing, and then, after a turn or two, the officer spoke. "It is true then, my lads, you deserted your ship?" "I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship," said Don firmly. "Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue." "Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?" cried Gordon warmly-- "as brave, true fellows as ever stepped." "I can believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back."<|quote|>"I ought to tell you, sir--"</|quote|>"Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back."<|quote|>"I ought to tell you, sir--"</|quote|>"Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; | Don Lavington |
"Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," | Josiah Christmas | ought to tell you, sir--"<|quote|>"Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy,"</|quote|>said the old man. "I | to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--"<|quote|>"Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy,"</|quote|>said the old man. "I know that you can't have | were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--"<|quote|>"Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy,"</|quote|>said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and | full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--"<|quote|>"Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy,"</|quote|>said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to | parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--"<|quote|>"Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy,"</|quote|>said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but | mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--"<|quote|>"Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy,"</|quote|>said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." | and then, after a turn or two, the officer spoke. "It is true then, my lads, you deserted your ship?" "I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship," said Don firmly. "Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue." "Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?" cried Gordon warmly-- "as brave, true fellows as ever stepped." "I can believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--"<|quote|>"Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy,"</|quote|>said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--"<|quote|>"Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy,"</|quote|>said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | Don Lavington |
said the old man. | No speaker | explain all by-and-by, my boy,"<|quote|>said the old man.</|quote|>"I know that you can't | tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy,"<|quote|>said the old man.</|quote|>"I know that you can't have been to blame; and, | was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy,"<|quote|>said the old man.</|quote|>"I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you | eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy,"<|quote|>said the old man.</|quote|>"I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." | a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy,"<|quote|>said the old man.</|quote|>"I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride | "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy,"<|quote|>said the old man.</|quote|>"I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | the officer spoke. "It is true then, my lads, you deserted your ship?" "I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship," said Don firmly. "Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue." "Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?" cried Gordon warmly-- "as brave, true fellows as ever stepped." "I can believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy,"<|quote|>said the old man.</|quote|>"I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy,"<|quote|>said the old man.</|quote|>"I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on | Don Lavington |
"I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." | Josiah Christmas | boy," said the old man.<|quote|>"I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were."</|quote|>"I hope so, uncle." "And | well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man.<|quote|>"I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were."</|quote|>"I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I | either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man.<|quote|>"I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were."</|quote|>"I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then | encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man.<|quote|>"I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were."</|quote|>"I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his | of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man.<|quote|>"I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were."</|quote|>"I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with | a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man.<|quote|>"I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were."</|quote|>"I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | is true then, my lads, you deserted your ship?" "I was forced to serve, sir, and I left the ship," said Don firmly. "Well, sir, I have but one course to pursue." "Surely you will not take them as prisoners, sir?" cried Gordon warmly-- "as brave, true fellows as ever stepped." "I can believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man.<|quote|>"I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were."</|quote|>"I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man.<|quote|>"I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were."</|quote|>"I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | Don Lavington |
"I hope so, uncle." | Don Lavington | wiser now than you were."<|quote|>"I hope so, uncle."</|quote|>"And you don't believe that | are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were."<|quote|>"I hope so, uncle."</|quote|>"And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" | know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were."<|quote|>"I hope so, uncle."</|quote|>"And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my | attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were."<|quote|>"I hope so, uncle."</|quote|>"And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his | uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were."<|quote|>"I hope so, uncle."</|quote|>"And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I | voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were."<|quote|>"I hope so, uncle."</|quote|>"And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | "I can believe that," said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were."<|quote|>"I hope so, uncle."</|quote|>"And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were."<|quote|>"I hope so, uncle."</|quote|>"And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top | Don Lavington |
"And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" | Josiah Christmas | were." "I hope so, uncle."<|quote|>"And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?"</|quote|>"I believe, uncle, that I | and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle."<|quote|>"And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?"</|quote|>"I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's | have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle."<|quote|>"And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?"</|quote|>"I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not | the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle."<|quote|>"And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?"</|quote|>"I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with | Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle."<|quote|>"And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?"</|quote|>"I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let | mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle."<|quote|>"And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?"</|quote|>"I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | said the officer; "but discipline must be maintained. Look here, my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle."<|quote|>"And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?"</|quote|>"I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle."<|quote|>"And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?"</|quote|>"I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | Don Lavington |
"I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" | Don Lavington | I ever was your enemy?"<|quote|>"I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--"</|quote|>"That's enough. P'r'aps I was | "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?"<|quote|>"I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--"</|quote|>"That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but | were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?"<|quote|>"I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--"</|quote|>"That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. | he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?"<|quote|>"I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--"</|quote|>"That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's | seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?"<|quote|>"I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--"</|quote|>"That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that | push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?"<|quote|>"I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--"</|quote|>"That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | my lads: I will serve you if I can. You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?"<|quote|>"I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--"</|quote|>"That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?"<|quote|>"I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--"</|quote|>"That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | Don Lavington |
"That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" | Josiah Christmas | I was very foolish, and--and--"<|quote|>"That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?"</|quote|>"No, uncle." "Then God bless | enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--"<|quote|>"That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?"</|quote|>"No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad | were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--"<|quote|>"That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?"</|quote|>"No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it | badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--"<|quote|>"That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?"</|quote|>"No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look | His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--"<|quote|>"That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?"</|quote|>"No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, | the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--"<|quote|>"That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?"</|quote|>"No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | You made a great mistake in deserting. I detest pressing men; but it is done, and it is not my duty to oppose the proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--"<|quote|>"That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?"</|quote|>"No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--"<|quote|>"That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?"</|quote|>"No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will | Don Lavington |
"No, uncle." | Don Lavington | haven't got to go again?"<|quote|>"No, uncle."</|quote|>"Then God bless you, my | they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?"<|quote|>"No, uncle."</|quote|>"Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have | than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?"<|quote|>"No, uncle."</|quote|>"Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with | old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?"<|quote|>"No, uncle."</|quote|>"Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride | when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?"<|quote|>"No, uncle."</|quote|>"Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the | he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?"<|quote|>"No, uncle."</|quote|>"Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | proceeding. Now, will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?"<|quote|>"No, uncle."</|quote|>"Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?"<|quote|>"No, uncle."</|quote|>"Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | Don Lavington |
"Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." | Josiah Christmas | to go again?" "No, uncle."<|quote|>"Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back."</|quote|>Don could not speak, only | at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle."<|quote|>"Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back."</|quote|>Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to | were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle."<|quote|>"Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back."</|quote|>Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of | "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle."<|quote|>"Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back."</|quote|>Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of | encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle."<|quote|>"Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back."</|quote|>Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you | his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle."<|quote|>"Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back."</|quote|>Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | will you take my advice?" "What is it, sir?" "Throw yourself on our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle."<|quote|>"Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back."</|quote|>Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle."<|quote|>"Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back."</|quote|>Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running | Don Lavington |
Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. | No speaker | glad to have you back."<|quote|>Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast.</|quote|>It was some time before | bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back."<|quote|>Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast.</|quote|>It was some time before Don was able to begin | was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back."<|quote|>Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast.</|quote|>It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's | time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back."<|quote|>Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast.</|quote|>It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to | await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back."<|quote|>Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast.</|quote|>It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up | the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back."<|quote|>Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast.</|quote|>It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | our captain's mercy. Your ship has sailed for China; we are going home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back."<|quote|>Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast.</|quote|>It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back."<|quote|>Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast.</|quote|>It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | Don Lavington |
It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. | No speaker | weeping mother to his breast.<|quote|>It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea.</|quote|>"But I ought not to | not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast.<|quote|>It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea.</|quote|>"But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, | "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast.<|quote|>It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea.</|quote|>"But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all | were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast.<|quote|>It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea.</|quote|>"But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" | up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast.<|quote|>It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea.</|quote|>"But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast.<|quote|>It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea.</|quote|>"But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | home short-handed. Volunteer to serve the king till the ship is paid off, and perhaps you will never hear of having deserted. What do you say?" "The same as Jem Wimble does, sir. I can volunteer, and fight, if you like; but I can't bear to be forced." "Well said!" cried the officer, smiling at Don's bit of grandiloquence; and, an hour later, after an affectionate parting from Ngati, who elected to stay with Gordon, Don and Jem were Jacks once more, marching cheerily with the main body, half a mile behind the guard in charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast.<|quote|>It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea.</|quote|>"But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast.<|quote|>It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea.</|quote|>"But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | Don Lavington |
"But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" | Don Lavington | when he was at sea.<|quote|>"But I ought not to have deserted uncle?"</|quote|>said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my | all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea.<|quote|>"But I ought not to have deserted uncle?"</|quote|>said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant | his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea.<|quote|>"But I ought not to have deserted uncle?"</|quote|>said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they | weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea.<|quote|>"But I ought not to have deserted uncle?"</|quote|>said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top | could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea.<|quote|>"But I ought not to have deserted uncle?"</|quote|>said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea.<|quote|>"But I ought not to have deserted uncle?"</|quote|>said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | charge of the convicts. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. HOME. It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea.<|quote|>"But I ought not to have deserted uncle?"</|quote|>said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea.<|quote|>"But I ought not to have deserted uncle?"</|quote|>said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | Don Lavington |
said Don, interrogatively. | No speaker | not to have deserted uncle?"<|quote|>said Don, interrogatively.</|quote|>"Well, my boy," said the | at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?"<|quote|>said Don, interrogatively.</|quote|>"Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his | old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?"<|quote|>said Don, interrogatively.</|quote|>"Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for | time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?"<|quote|>said Don, interrogatively.</|quote|>"Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, | that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?"<|quote|>said Don, interrogatively.</|quote|>"Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?"<|quote|>said Don, interrogatively.</|quote|>"Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | It was a non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?"<|quote|>said Don, interrogatively.</|quote|>"Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?"<|quote|>said Don, interrogatively.</|quote|>"Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | Don Lavington |
"Well, my boy," | Josiah Christmas | deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively.<|quote|>"Well, my boy,"</|quote|>said the old merchant thoughtfully, | I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively.<|quote|>"Well, my boy,"</|quote|>said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of | lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively.<|quote|>"Well, my boy,"</|quote|>said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I | was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively.<|quote|>"Well, my boy,"</|quote|>said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was | your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively.<|quote|>"Well, my boy,"</|quote|>said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively.<|quote|>"Well, my boy,"</|quote|>said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | non-adventurous voyage home, after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively.<|quote|>"Well, my boy,"</|quote|>said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively.<|quote|>"Well, my boy,"</|quote|>said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | Don Lavington |
said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, | No speaker | Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy,"<|quote|>said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end,</|quote|>"I hardly know what to | to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy,"<|quote|>said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end,</|quote|>"I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll | his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy,"<|quote|>said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end,</|quote|>"I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come | begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy,"<|quote|>said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end,</|quote|>"I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge | been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy,"<|quote|>said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end,</|quote|>"I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy,"<|quote|>said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end,</|quote|>"I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | after the convicts had been placed in the hands of the authorities at Port Jackson; and one soft summer evening, after a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy,"<|quote|>said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end,</|quote|>"I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy,"<|quote|>said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end,</|quote|>"I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | Don Lavington |
"I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." | Josiah Christmas | cheek with the waxy end,<|quote|>"I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest."</|quote|>"Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle | mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end,<|quote|>"I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest."</|quote|>"Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they | if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end,<|quote|>"I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest."</|quote|>"Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, | his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end,<|quote|>"I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest."</|quote|>"Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with | uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end,<|quote|>"I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest."</|quote|>"Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end,<|quote|>"I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest."</|quote|>"Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | a run by coach from Plymouth, two sturdy-looking brown young sailors leaped down in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end,<|quote|>"I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest."</|quote|>"Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end,<|quote|>"I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest."</|quote|>"Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | Don Lavington |
"Confound all press-gangs!" | Josiah Christmas | so we'll let it rest."<|quote|>"Confound all press-gangs!"</|quote|>said Uncle Josiah that night, | what to say about that, so we'll let it rest."<|quote|>"Confound all press-gangs!"</|quote|>said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for | at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest."<|quote|>"Confound all press-gangs!"</|quote|>said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The | seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest."<|quote|>"Confound all press-gangs!"</|quote|>said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my | uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest."<|quote|>"Confound all press-gangs!"</|quote|>said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest."<|quote|>"Confound all press-gangs!"</|quote|>said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | in front of the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest."<|quote|>"Confound all press-gangs!"</|quote|>said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest."<|quote|>"Confound all press-gangs!"</|quote|>said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | Don Lavington |
said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. | No speaker | it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!"<|quote|>said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed.</|quote|>"But I don't know, Don, | about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!"<|quote|>said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed.</|quote|>"But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a | I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!"<|quote|>said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed.</|quote|>"But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when | left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!"<|quote|>said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed.</|quote|>"But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said | was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!"<|quote|>said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed.</|quote|>"But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!"<|quote|>said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed.</|quote|>"But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | the old coaching hotel, and almost ran along the busy Bristol streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!"<|quote|>said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed.</|quote|>"But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!"<|quote|>said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed.</|quote|>"But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | Don Lavington |
"But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." | Josiah Christmas | they were parting for bed.<|quote|>"But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise."</|quote|>"Then I hope, uncle, that | Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed.<|quote|>"But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise."</|quote|>"Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come | my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed.<|quote|>"But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise."</|quote|>"Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." | back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed.<|quote|>"But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise."</|quote|>"Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my | too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed.<|quote|>"But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise."</|quote|>"Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed.<|quote|>"But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise."</|quote|>"Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | streets to reach the familiar spots where so much of their lives had been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed.<|quote|>"But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise."</|quote|>"Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed.<|quote|>"But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise."</|quote|>"Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | Don Lavington |
"Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" | Don Lavington | was a blessing in disguise."<|quote|>"Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?"</|quote|>"Your bundle, my dear?" "The | know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise."<|quote|>"Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?"</|quote|>"Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on | mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise."<|quote|>"Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?"</|quote|>"Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all | lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise."<|quote|>"Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?"</|quote|>"Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise."<|quote|>"Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?"</|quote|>"Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise."<|quote|>"Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?"</|quote|>"Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | been passed. Don was panting to get back into his mother's arms, but they had to pass the warehouse, and as they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise."<|quote|>"Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?"</|quote|>"Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise."<|quote|>"Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?"</|quote|>"Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | Don Lavington |
"Your bundle, my dear?" | Laura Lavington | mother, you found my bundle?"<|quote|>"Your bundle, my dear?"</|quote|>"The one I threw up | any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?"<|quote|>"Your bundle, my dear?"</|quote|>"The one I threw up on the top of the | it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?"<|quote|>"Your bundle, my dear?"</|quote|>"The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, | he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?"<|quote|>"Your bundle, my dear?"</|quote|>"The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?"<|quote|>"Your bundle, my dear?"</|quote|>"The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?"<|quote|>"Your bundle, my dear?"</|quote|>"The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | they reached the gates Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?"<|quote|>"Your bundle, my dear?"</|quote|>"The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?"<|quote|>"Your bundle, my dear?"</|quote|>"The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | Don Lavington |
"The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." | Don Lavington | bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?"<|quote|>"The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away."</|quote|>"My dear Don, no." They | But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?"<|quote|>"The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away."</|quote|>"My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don | press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?"<|quote|>"The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away."</|quote|>"My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to | "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?"<|quote|>"The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away."</|quote|>"My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?"<|quote|>"The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away."</|quote|>"My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?"<|quote|>"The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away."</|quote|>"My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | Jem began to tremble. "No, no; don't go by, Mas' Don. I dursen't go alone." "What, not to meet your own wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?"<|quote|>"The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away."</|quote|>"My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?"<|quote|>"The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away."</|quote|>"My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | Don Lavington |
"My dear Don, no." | Laura Lavington | to think of running away."<|quote|>"My dear Don, no."</|quote|>They went to the chamber; | when I was foolish enough to think of running away."<|quote|>"My dear Don, no."</|quote|>They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge | a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away."<|quote|>"My dear Don, no."</|quote|>They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my | pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away."<|quote|>"My dear Don, no."</|quote|>They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away."<|quote|>"My dear Don, no."</|quote|>They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away."<|quote|>"My dear Don, no."</|quote|>They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | wife?" "No, Mas' Don; 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away."<|quote|>"My dear Don, no."</|quote|>They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away."<|quote|>"My dear Don, no."</|quote|>They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | Don Lavington |
They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. | No speaker | away." "My dear Don, no."<|quote|>They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue.</|quote|>"Don, my darling!" "But I | enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no."<|quote|>They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue.</|quote|>"Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! | "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no."<|quote|>They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue.</|quote|>"Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no."<|quote|>They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue.</|quote|>"Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no."<|quote|>They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue.</|quote|>"Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no."<|quote|>They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue.</|quote|>"Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | 'tarn't that. I'm feared she's gone no one knows where. Stand by me while I ask, Mas' Don." "No, no, Jem. I must get home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no."<|quote|>They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue.</|quote|>"Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no."<|quote|>They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue.</|quote|>"Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | Don Lavington |
"Don, my darling!" | Laura Lavington | bundle all covered with flue.<|quote|>"Don, my darling!"</|quote|>"But I had repented, mother, | over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue.<|quote|>"Don, my darling!"</|quote|>"But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said | dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue.<|quote|>"Don, my darling!"</|quote|>"But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue.<|quote|>"Don, my darling!"</|quote|>"But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue.<|quote|>"Don, my darling!"</|quote|>"But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue.<|quote|>"Don, my darling!"</|quote|>"But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | home." "We've stood by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue.<|quote|>"Don, my darling!"</|quote|>"But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue.<|quote|>"Don, my darling!"</|quote|>"But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | Don Lavington |
"But I had repented, mother, and--" | Don Lavington | with flue. "Don, my darling!"<|quote|>"But I had repented, mother, and--"</|quote|>"Hush! No more," said Uncle | down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!"<|quote|>"But I had repented, mother, and--"</|quote|>"Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is | I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!"<|quote|>"But I had repented, mother, and--"</|quote|>"Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!"<|quote|>"But I had repented, mother, and--"</|quote|>"Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!"<|quote|>"But I had repented, mother, and--"</|quote|>"Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!"<|quote|>"But I had repented, mother, and--"</|quote|>"Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | by one another, Mas' Don, in many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!"<|quote|>"But I had repented, mother, and--"</|quote|>"Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!"<|quote|>"But I had repented, mother, and--"</|quote|>"Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | Don Lavington |
"Hush! No more," | Josiah Christmas | I had repented, mother, and--"<|quote|>"Hush! No more,"</|quote|>said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the | flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--"<|quote|>"Hush! No more,"</|quote|>said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to | of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--"<|quote|>"Hush! No more,"</|quote|>said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--"<|quote|>"Hush! No more,"</|quote|>said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--"<|quote|>"Hush! No more,"</|quote|>said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--"<|quote|>"Hush! No more,"</|quote|>said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | many a fight and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--"<|quote|>"Hush! No more,"</|quote|>said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--"<|quote|>"Hush! No more,"</|quote|>said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | Don Lavington |
said Uncle Josiah firmly; | No speaker | mother, and--" "Hush! No more,"<|quote|>said Uncle Josiah firmly;</|quote|>"the past is gone. Here's | darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more,"<|quote|>said Uncle Josiah firmly;</|quote|>"the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my | when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more,"<|quote|>said Uncle Josiah firmly;</|quote|>"the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more,"<|quote|>said Uncle Josiah firmly;</|quote|>"the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more,"<|quote|>said Uncle Josiah firmly;</|quote|>"the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more,"<|quote|>said Uncle Josiah firmly;</|quote|>"the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | and at sea, and on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more,"<|quote|>said Uncle Josiah firmly;</|quote|>"the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more,"<|quote|>said Uncle Josiah firmly;</|quote|>"the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." THE END. | Don Lavington |
"the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night." | Josiah Christmas | more," said Uncle Josiah firmly;<|quote|>"the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night."</|quote|>THE END. | repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly;<|quote|>"the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night."</|quote|>THE END. | enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly;<|quote|>"the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night."</|quote|>THE END. | know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly;<|quote|>"the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night."</|quote|>THE END. | chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly;<|quote|>"the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night."</|quote|>THE END. | ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly;<|quote|>"the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night."</|quote|>THE END. | on shore. Don't forsake your mate now." "I'll stay, Jem," said Don. "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly;<|quote|>"the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night."</|quote|>THE END. | await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly;<|quote|>"the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night."</|quote|>THE END. | Don Lavington |
THE END. | No speaker | happy future, my boy. Good-night."<|quote|>THE END.</|quote|> | is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night."<|quote|>THE END.</|quote|> | to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night."<|quote|>THE END.</|quote|> | hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night."<|quote|>THE END.</|quote|> | a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night."<|quote|>THE END.</|quote|> | said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night."<|quote|>THE END.</|quote|> | "Mas' Don, you are a good one!" cried Jem. "Would you mind pulling the bell--werry gently? My hand shakes so, I shall make a noise." Don gave the bell a tremendous peal, when Jem looked at him reproachfully, and seemed ready to run away, as the lesser gate was snatched angrily open, and a shrill voice began,-- "What d'you mean by ringing like--" "Sally!" "Jem!" Don gave Jem a push in the back, which sent him forward into the yard, pulled the gate to, and ran on as hard as he could to his uncle's house. He had laughed at Jem when he said his hand trembled, but his own shook as he took hold of the knocker, and gave the most comical double rap ever thumped upon a big front door. There was a click; the door was thrown open by one who had seen the brown young sailor pass the window, and Don Lavington was tightly held in his mother's arms, while two little hands held his, and Kitty jumped up to get a kiss placed upon his cheek. The explanations were in full swing as, unheard by those in the parlour, the front door was opened by a latch-key, and that of the parlour followed suit, for Uncle Josiah to stand looking smilingly at the group before him. When at last he was seen, Don started up and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night."<|quote|>THE END.</|quote|> | and gazed dubiously in the grave, stern face before him, recalling in those brief moments scene after scene in the past, when he and his uncle had been, as Jem expressed it, "at loggerheads again," and his life had seemed to him a time of misery and care. His first coherent thoughts were as to what he should say--how he should enter into full explanations of his movements since that eventful night when he encountered the press-gang. It was better to attack, he thought, than to await the coming on of his adversary, and he had just made up his mind to the former course of action, when all his plans and words were blown to the wind, and there was no need for either attack or defence, for the old man advanced with extended hand. "Don, my lad," he said quietly, "I've felt the want of you badly at the office. Glad to see you back." "I ought to tell you, sir--" "Ah, well explain all by-and-by, my boy," said the old man. "I know that you can't have been to blame; and, look here, time back you were as stubborn as could be, and thought you were ill-used, and that I was your enemy. You've been round the world since then, and you are bigger, and broader, and wiser now than you were." "I hope so, uncle." "And you don't believe that I ever was your enemy?" "I believe, uncle, that I was very foolish, and--and--" "That's enough. P'r'aps I was a bit too hard, but not so hard as they are at sea. You haven't got to go again?" "No, uncle." "Then God bless you, my boy! I'm glad to have you back." Don could not speak, only hold his weeping mother to his breast. It was some time before Don was able to begin his explanations, and the account of what had passed; and when he did it was with his mother sitting on his right, holding his hand in both of hers, and with his cousin seated upon his left, following her aunt's suit, while the old Bristol merchant lay back in his chair smoking his evening pipe, a grim smile upon his lips, but a look of pride in his eyes as if he did not at all disapprove of Don's conduct when he was at sea. "But I ought not to have deserted uncle?" said Don, interrogatively. "Well, my boy," said the old merchant thoughtfully, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and rubbing his stubbly cheek with the waxy end, "I hardly know what to say about that, so we'll let it rest." "Confound all press-gangs!" said Uncle Josiah that night, as they were parting for bed. "But I don't know, Don, perhaps this one was a blessing in disguise." "Then I hope, uncle, that the next blessing will come without any disguise at all. But, mother, you found my bundle?" "Your bundle, my dear?" "The one I threw up on the top of the bed-tester, when I was foolish enough to think of running away." "My dear Don, no." They went to the chamber; Don leaped on the edge of the bed, reached over, and brought down the bundle all covered with flue. "Don, my darling!" "But I had repented, mother, and--" "Hush! No more," said Uncle Josiah firmly; "the past is gone. Here's to a happy future, my boy. Good-night."<|quote|>THE END.</|quote|> | Don Lavington |
I In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. | No speaker | <|quote|>I In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.</|quote|>“Whenever you feel like criticizing | <|quote|>I In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.</|quote|>“Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,” he told me, “just | <|quote|>I In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.</|quote|>“Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.” He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more | <|quote|>I In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.</|quote|>“Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.” He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgements, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in | <|quote|>I In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.</|quote|>“Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.” He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgements, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little | <|quote|>I In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.</|quote|>“Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.” He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgements, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth. And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament” | <|quote|>I In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.</|quote|>“Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.” He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgements, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth. And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament” —it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today. I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why—ye-es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two. The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him | <|quote|>I In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.</|quote|>“Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.” He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgements, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth. And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament” —it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed | The Great Gatsby |
he told me, | No speaker | you feel like criticizing anyone,”<|quote|>he told me,</|quote|>“just remember that all the | my mind ever since. “Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,”<|quote|>he told me,</|quote|>“just remember that all the people in this world haven’t | I In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. “Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,”<|quote|>he told me,</|quote|>“just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.” He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all | I In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. “Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,”<|quote|>he told me,</|quote|>“just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.” He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgements, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that | I In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. “Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,”<|quote|>he told me,</|quote|>“just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.” He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgements, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as | I In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. “Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,”<|quote|>he told me,</|quote|>“just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.” He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgements, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth. And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament” —it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic | I In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. “Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,”<|quote|>he told me,</|quote|>“just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.” He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgements, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth. And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament” —it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today. I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why—ye-es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two. The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away—and an | I In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. “Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,”<|quote|>he told me,</|quote|>“just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.” He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgements, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth. And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament” —it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today. I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic | The Great Gatsby |
He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgements, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth. And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the | No speaker | the advantages that you’ve had.”<|quote|>He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgements, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth. And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the</|quote|>“creative temperament” —it was an | in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.”<|quote|>He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgements, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth. And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the</|quote|>“creative temperament” —it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a | I In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. “Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.”<|quote|>He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgements, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth. And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the</|quote|>“creative temperament” —it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust | I In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. “Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.”<|quote|>He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgements, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth. And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the</|quote|>“creative temperament” —it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition | I In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. “Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.”<|quote|>He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgements, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth. And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the</|quote|>“creative temperament” —it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today. I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I | I In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. “Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.”<|quote|>He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgements, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth. And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the</|quote|>“creative temperament” —it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today. I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why—ye-es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two. The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I | I In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. “Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.”<|quote|>He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgements, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth. And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the</|quote|>“creative temperament” —it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today. I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why—ye-es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two. The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove. It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road. “How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly. I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighbourhood. And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.” This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all. It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to | I In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. “Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.”<|quote|>He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgements, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth. And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the</|quote|>“creative temperament” —it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today. I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that | The Great Gatsby |
“creative temperament” | No speaker | under the name of the<|quote|>“creative temperament”</|quote|>—it was an extraordinary gift | flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the<|quote|>“creative temperament”</|quote|>—it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness | there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the<|quote|>“creative temperament”</|quote|>—it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in | forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the<|quote|>“creative temperament”</|quote|>—it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re | a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth. And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the<|quote|>“creative temperament”</|quote|>—it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today. I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the | ever since. “Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.” He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgements, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth. And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the<|quote|>“creative temperament”</|quote|>—it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today. I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why—ye-es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two. The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him | I In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. “Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.” He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgements, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth. And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the<|quote|>“creative temperament”</|quote|>—it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today. I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why—ye-es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two. The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove. It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road. “How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly. I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighbourhood. And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.” This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all. It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls | I In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. “Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.” He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgements, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth. And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the<|quote|>“creative temperament”</|quote|>—it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today. I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why—ye-es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two. The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the | The Great Gatsby |
—it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today. I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, | No speaker | name of the “creative temperament”<|quote|>—it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today. I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said,</|quote|>“Why—ye-es,” with very grave, hesitant | which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament”<|quote|>—it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today. I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said,</|quote|>“Why—ye-es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance | something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament”<|quote|>—it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today. I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said,</|quote|>“Why—ye-es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two. The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left | wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament”<|quote|>—it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today. I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said,</|quote|>“Why—ye-es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two. The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute | afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth. And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament”<|quote|>—it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today. I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said,</|quote|>“Why—ye-es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two. The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove. It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road. “How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly. I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no | “Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.” He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgements, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth. And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament”<|quote|>—it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today. I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said,</|quote|>“Why—ye-es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two. The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove. It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road. “How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly. I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighbourhood. And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.” This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all. It was | I In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. “Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.” He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgements, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth. And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament”<|quote|>—it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today. I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said,</|quote|>“Why—ye-es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two. The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove. It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road. “How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly. I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighbourhood. And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.” This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all. It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size. I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month. Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago. Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that | judgements, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth. And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament”<|quote|>—it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today. I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said,</|quote|>“Why—ye-es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two. The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove. It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road. “How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly. I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighbourhood. And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction | The Great Gatsby |
with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two. The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove. It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road. | No speaker | me, and finally said, “Why—ye-es,”<|quote|>with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two. The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove. It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.</|quote|>“How do you get to | choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why—ye-es,”<|quote|>with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two. The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove. It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.</|quote|>“How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked | I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why—ye-es,”<|quote|>with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two. The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove. It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.</|quote|>“How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly. I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighbourhood. And so with the sunshine and | my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why—ye-es,”<|quote|>with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two. The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove. It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.</|quote|>“How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly. I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighbourhood. And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of | this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today. I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why—ye-es,”<|quote|>with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two. The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove. It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.</|quote|>“How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly. I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighbourhood. And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all | autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament” —it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today. I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why—ye-es,”<|quote|>with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two. The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove. It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.</|quote|>“How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly. I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighbourhood. And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.” This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all. It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size. I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at | I In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. “Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.” He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgements, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth. And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament” —it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today. I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why—ye-es,”<|quote|>with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two. The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove. It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.</|quote|>“How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly. I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighbourhood. And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.” This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all. It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size. I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month. Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago. Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm | I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament” —it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today. I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why—ye-es,”<|quote|>with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two. The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove. It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.</|quote|>“How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly. I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighbourhood. And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.” This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all. It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size. I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with | The Great Gatsby |
he asked helplessly. I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighbourhood. And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the | No speaker | get to West Egg village?”<|quote|>he asked helplessly. I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighbourhood. And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the</|quote|>“well-rounded man.” This isn’t just | the road. “How do you get to West Egg village?”<|quote|>he asked helplessly. I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighbourhood. And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the</|quote|>“well-rounded man.” This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more | Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove. It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road. “How do you get to West Egg village?”<|quote|>he asked helplessly. I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighbourhood. And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the</|quote|>“well-rounded man.” This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all. It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends | the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove. It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road. “How do you get to West Egg village?”<|quote|>he asked helplessly. I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighbourhood. And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the</|quote|>“well-rounded man.” This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all. It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the | it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why—ye-es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two. The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove. It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road. “How do you get to West Egg village?”<|quote|>he asked helplessly. I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighbourhood. And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the</|quote|>“well-rounded man.” This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all. It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size. I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very | abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today. I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why—ye-es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two. The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove. It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road. “How do you get to West Egg village?”<|quote|>he asked helplessly. I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighbourhood. And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the</|quote|>“well-rounded man.” This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all. It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size. I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month. Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent | has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth. And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament” —it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today. I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why—ye-es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two. The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove. It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road. “How do you get to West Egg village?”<|quote|>he asked helplessly. I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighbourhood. And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the</|quote|>“well-rounded man.” This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all. It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size. I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month. Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago. Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see | uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why—ye-es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two. The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove. It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road. “How do you get to West Egg village?”<|quote|>he asked helplessly. I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighbourhood. And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the</|quote|>“well-rounded man.” This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all. It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size. I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month. Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago. Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard | The Great Gatsby |
“well-rounded man.” | No speaker | limited of all specialists, the<|quote|>“well-rounded man.”</|quote|>This isn’t just an epigram—life | and become again that most limited of all specialists, the<|quote|>“well-rounded man.”</|quote|>This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked | of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the<|quote|>“well-rounded man.”</|quote|>This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all. It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due | breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the<|quote|>“well-rounded man.”</|quote|>This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all. It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, | you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly. I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighbourhood. And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the<|quote|>“well-rounded man.”</|quote|>This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all. It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size. I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of | All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why—ye-es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two. The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove. It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road. “How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly. I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighbourhood. And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the<|quote|>“well-rounded man.”</|quote|>This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all. It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size. I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month. Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days | wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament” —it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today. I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why—ye-es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two. The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove. It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road. “How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly. I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighbourhood. And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the<|quote|>“well-rounded man.”</|quote|>This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all. It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size. I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month. Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago. Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great | weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove. It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road. “How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly. I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighbourhood. And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the<|quote|>“well-rounded man.”</|quote|>This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all. It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size. I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month. Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago. Her husband, among various | The Great Gatsby |
This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all. It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size. I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month. Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago. Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. | No speaker | all specialists, the “well-rounded man.”<|quote|>This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all. It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size. I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month. Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago. Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.</|quote|>“Now, don’t think my opinion | again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.”<|quote|>This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all. It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size. I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month. Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago. Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.</|quote|>“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” | many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.”<|quote|>This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all. It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size. I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month. Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago. Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.</|quote|>“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and | I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.”<|quote|>This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all. It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size. I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month. Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago. Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.</|quote|>“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the | to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly. I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighbourhood. And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.”<|quote|>This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all. It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size. I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month. Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago. Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.</|quote|>“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end | aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why—ye-es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two. The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove. It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road. “How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly. I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighbourhood. And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.”<|quote|>This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all. It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size. I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month. Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago. Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.</|quote|>“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me | but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament” —it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today. I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why—ye-es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two. The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove. It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road. “How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly. I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighbourhood. And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.”<|quote|>This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all. It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size. I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month. Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago. Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.</|quote|>“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d | support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why—ye-es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two. The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove. It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road. “How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly. I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighbourhood. And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.”<|quote|>This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all. It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size. I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month. Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago. Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.</|quote|>“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom | The Great Gatsby |
“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” | Tom | who had hated his guts.<|quote|>“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,”</|quote|>he seemed to say, “just | were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.<|quote|>“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,”</|quote|>he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more | It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.<|quote|>“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,”</|quote|>he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness | leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.<|quote|>“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,”</|quote|>he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, | reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.<|quote|>“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,”</|quote|>he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up | matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.<|quote|>“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,”</|quote|>he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no | unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size. I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month. Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago. Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.<|quote|>“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,”</|quote|>he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you | windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.<|quote|>“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,”</|quote|>he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in | The Great Gatsby |
he seemed to say, | No speaker | on these matters is final,”<|quote|>he seemed to say,</|quote|>“just because I’m stronger and | “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,”<|quote|>he seemed to say,</|quote|>“just because I’m stronger and more of a man than | His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,”<|quote|>he seemed to say,</|quote|>“just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We | riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,”<|quote|>he seemed to say,</|quote|>“just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of | as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,”<|quote|>he seemed to say,</|quote|>“just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake | in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,”<|quote|>he seemed to say,</|quote|>“just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I | pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size. I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month. Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago. Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,”<|quote|>he seemed to say,</|quote|>“just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” | in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago. Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,”<|quote|>he seemed to say,</|quote|>“just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young | The Great Gatsby |
“just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” | Tom | final,” he seemed to say,<|quote|>“just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.”</|quote|>We were in the same | opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say,<|quote|>“just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.”</|quote|>We were in the same senior society, and while we | gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say,<|quote|>“just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.”</|quote|>We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a | the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say,<|quote|>“just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.”</|quote|>We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. | momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say,<|quote|>“just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.”</|quote|>We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a | rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say,<|quote|>“just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.”</|quote|>We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by | identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size. I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month. Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago. Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say,<|quote|>“just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.”</|quote|>We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been | the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say,<|quote|>“just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.”</|quote|>We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the | The Great Gatsby |
We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. | No speaker | a man than you are.”<|quote|>We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.</|quote|>“I’ve got a nice place | I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.”<|quote|>We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.</|quote|>“I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes | was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.”<|quote|>We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.</|quote|>“I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped | until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.”<|quote|>We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.</|quote|>“I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white | French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.”<|quote|>We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.</|quote|>“I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering | of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.”<|quote|>We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.</|quote|>“I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something | into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size. I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month. Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago. Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.”<|quote|>We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.</|quote|>“I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in | in Chicago. Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.”<|quote|>We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.</|quote|>“I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by | The Great Gatsby |
“I’ve got a nice place here,” | Tom | minutes on the sunny porch.<|quote|>“I’ve got a nice place here,”</|quote|>he said, his eyes flashing | We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.<|quote|>“I’ve got a nice place here,”</|quote|>he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around | than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.<|quote|>“I’ve got a nice place here,”</|quote|>he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to | he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.<|quote|>“I’ve got a nice place here,”</|quote|>he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that | thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.<|quote|>“I’ve got a nice place here,”</|quote|>he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been | there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.<|quote|>“I’ve got a nice place here,”</|quote|>he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand | of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size. I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month. Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago. Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.<|quote|>“I’ve got a nice place here,”</|quote|>he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in | Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.<|quote|>“I’ve got a nice place here,”</|quote|>he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, | The Great Gatsby |
he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. | No speaker | got a nice place here,”<|quote|>he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore.</|quote|>“It belonged to Demaine, the | on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,”<|quote|>he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore.</|quote|>“It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me | the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,”<|quote|>he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore.</|quote|>“It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh | of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,”<|quote|>he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore.</|quote|>“It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a | and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,”<|quote|>he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore.</|quote|>“It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear | and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,”<|quote|>he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore.</|quote|>“It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said | that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size. I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month. Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago. Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,”<|quote|>he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore.</|quote|>“It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was | cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago. Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,”<|quote|>he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore.</|quote|>“It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed | The Great Gatsby |
“It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” | Tom | that bumped the tide offshore.<|quote|>“It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.”</|quote|>He turned me around again, | roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore.<|quote|>“It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.”</|quote|>He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go | nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore.<|quote|>“It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.”</|quote|>He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a | We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore.<|quote|>“It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.”</|quote|>He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on | until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore.<|quote|>“It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.”</|quote|>He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out | And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore.<|quote|>“It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.”</|quote|>He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make | sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month. Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago. Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore.<|quote|>“It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.”</|quote|>He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since | arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore.<|quote|>“It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.”</|quote|>He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear | The Great Gatsby |
He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. | No speaker | to Demaine, the oil man.”<|quote|>He turned me around again, politely and abruptly.</|quote|>“We’ll go inside.” We walked | the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.”<|quote|>He turned me around again, politely and abruptly.</|quote|>“We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into | flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.”<|quote|>He turned me around again, politely and abruptly.</|quote|>“We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew | and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.”<|quote|>He turned me around again, politely and abruptly.</|quote|>“We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in | you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.”<|quote|>He turned me around again, politely and abruptly.</|quote|>“We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the | warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.”<|quote|>He turned me around again, politely and abruptly.</|quote|>“We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that | at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month. Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago. Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.”<|quote|>He turned me around again, politely and abruptly.</|quote|>“We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised | front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.”<|quote|>He turned me around again, politely and abruptly.</|quote|>“We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, | The Great Gatsby |
“We’ll go inside.” | Tom | around again, politely and abruptly.<|quote|>“We’ll go inside.”</|quote|>We walked through a high | oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly.<|quote|>“We’ll go inside.”</|quote|>We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured | arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly.<|quote|>“We’ll go inside.”</|quote|>We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, | had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly.<|quote|>“We’ll go inside.”</|quote|>We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was | shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly.<|quote|>“We’ll go inside.”</|quote|>We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the | Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly.<|quote|>“We’ll go inside.”</|quote|>We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no | fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month. Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago. Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly.<|quote|>“We’ll go inside.”</|quote|>We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much | he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly.<|quote|>“We’ll go inside.”</|quote|>We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask | The Great Gatsby |
We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. | No speaker | and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.”<|quote|>We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room.</|quote|>“I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She | turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.”<|quote|>We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room.</|quote|>“I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she | a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.”<|quote|>We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room.</|quote|>“I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in | that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.”<|quote|>We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room.</|quote|>“I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then | shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.”<|quote|>We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room.</|quote|>“I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright | two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.”<|quote|>We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room.</|quote|>“I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed | the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month. Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago. Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.”<|quote|>We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room.</|quote|>“I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the | freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.”<|quote|>We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room.</|quote|>“I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came | The Great Gatsby |
“I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” | Daisy | came forward into the room.<|quote|>“I’m p-paralysed with happiness.”</|quote|>She laughed again, as if | and I laughed too and came forward into the room.<|quote|>“I’m p-paralysed with happiness.”</|quote|>She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, | of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room.<|quote|>“I’m p-paralysed with happiness.”</|quote|>She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the | me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room.<|quote|>“I’m p-paralysed with happiness.”</|quote|>She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head | They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room.<|quote|>“I’m p-paralysed with happiness.”</|quote|>She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright | his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room.<|quote|>“I’m p-paralysed with happiness.”</|quote|>She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I | year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room.<|quote|>“I’m p-paralysed with happiness.”</|quote|>She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the | a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room.<|quote|>“I’m p-paralysed with happiness.”</|quote|>She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink | The Great Gatsby |
She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered | No speaker | room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.”<|quote|>She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered</|quote|>“Listen,” a promise that she | and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.”<|quote|>She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered</|quote|>“Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things | almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.”<|quote|>She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered</|quote|>“Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent | full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.”<|quote|>She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered</|quote|>“Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she | white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.”<|quote|>She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered</|quote|>“Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then | for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.”<|quote|>She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered</|quote|>“Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young | no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.”<|quote|>She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered</|quote|>“Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. “Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. “You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—” “I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.” “Hulking,” insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening | an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.”<|quote|>She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered</|quote|>“Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for | The Great Gatsby |
“Listen,” | Daisy | a singing compulsion, a whispered<|quote|>“Listen,”</|quote|>a promise that she had | her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered<|quote|>“Listen,”</|quote|>a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just | of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered<|quote|>“Listen,”</|quote|>a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their | lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered<|quote|>“Listen,”</|quote|>a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added | no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered<|quote|>“Listen,”</|quote|>a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back | have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered<|quote|>“Listen,”</|quote|>a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. | his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered<|quote|>“Listen,”</|quote|>a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. “Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. “You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—” “I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.” “Hulking,” insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was | slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered<|quote|>“Listen,”</|quote|>a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How | The Great Gatsby |
a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. | No speaker | singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,”<|quote|>a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me.</|quote|>“Do they miss me?” she | found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,”<|quote|>a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me.</|quote|>“Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town | notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,”<|quote|>a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me.</|quote|>“Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought | Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,”<|quote|>a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me.</|quote|>“Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a | one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,”<|quote|>a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me.</|quote|>“Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as | stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,”<|quote|>a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me.</|quote|>“Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” | face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,”<|quote|>a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me.</|quote|>“Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. “Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. “You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—” “I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.” “Hulking,” insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself. “You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?” I meant nothing in particular | them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,”<|quote|>a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me.</|quote|>“Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” | The Great Gatsby |
“Do they miss me?” | Daisy | sent their love through me.<|quote|>“Do they miss me?”</|quote|>she cried ecstatically. “The whole | how a dozen people had sent their love through me.<|quote|>“Do they miss me?”</|quote|>she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the | she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me.<|quote|>“Do they miss me?”</|quote|>she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” | never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me.<|quote|>“Do they miss me?”</|quote|>she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” | charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me.<|quote|>“Do they miss me?”</|quote|>she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for | young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me.<|quote|>“Do they miss me?”</|quote|>she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” | moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me.<|quote|>“Do they miss me?”</|quote|>she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. “Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. “You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—” “I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.” “Hulking,” insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself. “You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?” I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but | of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me.<|quote|>“Do they miss me?”</|quote|>she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” | The Great Gatsby |
she cried ecstatically. | No speaker | me. “Do they miss me?”<|quote|>she cried ecstatically.</|quote|>“The whole town is desolate. | had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?”<|quote|>she cried ecstatically.</|quote|>“The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the | exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?”<|quote|>she cried ecstatically.</|quote|>“The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” | Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?”<|quote|>she cried ecstatically.</|quote|>“The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. | Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?”<|quote|>she cried ecstatically.</|quote|>“The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and | to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?”<|quote|>she cried ecstatically.</|quote|>“The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. | coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?”<|quote|>she cried ecstatically.</|quote|>“The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. “Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. “You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—” “I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.” “Hulking,” insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself. “You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?” I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken | eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?”<|quote|>she cried ecstatically.</|quote|>“The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if | The Great Gatsby |
“The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” | Nick | miss me?” she cried ecstatically.<|quote|>“The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.”</|quote|>“How gorgeous! Let’s go back, | love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically.<|quote|>“The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.”</|quote|>“How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added | a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically.<|quote|>“The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.”</|quote|>“How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped | sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically.<|quote|>“The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.”</|quote|>“How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t | fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically.<|quote|>“The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.”</|quote|>“How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t | The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically.<|quote|>“The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.”</|quote|>“How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though | a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically.<|quote|>“The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.”</|quote|>“How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. “Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. “You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—” “I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.” “Hulking,” insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself. “You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?” I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way. “Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read The Rise of the Coloured | up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically.<|quote|>“The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.”</|quote|>“How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” | The Great Gatsby |
“How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” | Daisy | night along the north shore.”<|quote|>“How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!”</|quote|>Then she added irrelevantly: “You | there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.”<|quote|>“How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!”</|quote|>Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” | way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.”<|quote|>“How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!”</|quote|>Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. | found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.”<|quote|>“How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!”</|quote|>Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy | fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.”<|quote|>“How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!”</|quote|>Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been | as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.”<|quote|>“How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!”</|quote|>Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another | in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.”<|quote|>“How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!”</|quote|>Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. “Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. “You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—” “I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.” “Hulking,” insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself. “You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?” I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way. “Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read The Rise of the Coloured Empires by this man Goddard?” “Why, no,” | with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.”<|quote|>“How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!”</|quote|>Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom | The Great Gatsby |
Then she added irrelevantly: | No speaker | Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!”<|quote|>Then she added irrelevantly:</|quote|>“You ought to see the | the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!”<|quote|>Then she added irrelevantly:</|quote|>“You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s | had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!”<|quote|>Then she added irrelevantly:</|quote|>“You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” | a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!”<|quote|>Then she added irrelevantly:</|quote|>“You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at | to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!”<|quote|>Then she added irrelevantly:</|quote|>“You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you | it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!”<|quote|>Then she added irrelevantly:</|quote|>“You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their | there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!”<|quote|>Then she added irrelevantly:</|quote|>“You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. “Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. “You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—” “I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.” “Hulking,” insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself. “You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?” I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way. “Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read The Rise of the Coloured Empires by this man Goddard?” “Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised | wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!”<|quote|>Then she added irrelevantly:</|quote|>“You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could | The Great Gatsby |
“You ought to see the baby.” | Daisy | Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly:<|quote|>“You ought to see the baby.”</|quote|>“I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. | gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly:<|quote|>“You ought to see the baby.”</|quote|>“I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t | through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly:<|quote|>“You ought to see the baby.”</|quote|>“I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” | promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly:<|quote|>“You ought to see the baby.”</|quote|>“I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert | any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly:<|quote|>“You ought to see the baby.”</|quote|>“I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, | likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly:<|quote|>“You ought to see the baby.”</|quote|>“I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, | New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly:<|quote|>“You ought to see the baby.”</|quote|>“I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. “Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. “You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—” “I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.” “Hulking,” insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself. “You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?” I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way. “Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read The Rise of the Coloured Empires by this man Goddard?” “Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone. “Well, it’s a | Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly:<|quote|>“You ought to see the baby.”</|quote|>“I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m | The Great Gatsby |
“I’d like to.” | Nick | ought to see the baby.”<|quote|>“I’d like to.”</|quote|>“She’s asleep. She’s three years | Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.”<|quote|>“I’d like to.”</|quote|>“She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen | she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.”<|quote|>“I’d like to.”</|quote|>“She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. | exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.”<|quote|>“I’d like to.”</|quote|>“She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. | a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.”<|quote|>“I’d like to.”</|quote|>“She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss | me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.”<|quote|>“I’d like to.”</|quote|>“She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young | guts. “Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.”<|quote|>“I’d like to.”</|quote|>“She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. “Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. “You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—” “I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.” “Hulking,” insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself. “You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?” I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way. “Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read The Rise of the Coloured Empires by this man Goddard?” “Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone. “Well, it’s a fine book, and | a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.”<|quote|>“I’d like to.”</|quote|>“She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer | The Great Gatsby |
“She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” | Daisy | the baby.” “I’d like to.”<|quote|>“She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?”</|quote|>“Never.” “Well, you ought to | irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.”<|quote|>“She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?”</|quote|>“Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, | “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.”<|quote|>“She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?”</|quote|>“Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You | a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.”<|quote|>“She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?”</|quote|>“Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At | from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.”<|quote|>“She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?”</|quote|>“Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m | the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.”<|quote|>“She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?”</|quote|>“Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward | think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.”<|quote|>“She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?”</|quote|>“Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. “Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. “You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—” “I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.” “Hulking,” insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself. “You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?” I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way. “Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read The Rise of the Coloured Empires by this man Goddard?” “Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone. “Well, it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don’t | world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.”<|quote|>“She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?”</|quote|>“Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How | The Great Gatsby |
“Never.” | Nick | Haven’t you ever seen her?”<|quote|>“Never.”</|quote|>“Well, you ought to see | asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?”<|quote|>“Never.”</|quote|>“Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who | rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?”<|quote|>“Never.”</|quote|>“Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” | in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?”<|quote|>“Never.”</|quote|>“Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this | ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?”<|quote|>“Never.”</|quote|>“Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely | I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?”<|quote|>“Never.”</|quote|>“Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the | say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?”<|quote|>“Never.”</|quote|>“Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. “Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. “You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—” “I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.” “Hulking,” insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself. “You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?” I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way. “Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read The Rise of the Coloured Empires by this man Goddard?” “Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone. “Well, it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don’t look | just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?”<|quote|>“Never.”</|quote|>“Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by | The Great Gatsby |
“Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” | Daisy | you ever seen her?” “Never.”<|quote|>“Well, you ought to see her. She’s—”</|quote|>Tom Buchanan, who had been | She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.”<|quote|>“Well, you ought to see her. She’s—”</|quote|>Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, | wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.”<|quote|>“Well, you ought to see her. She’s—”</|quote|>Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you | the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.”<|quote|>“Well, you ought to see her. She’s—”</|quote|>Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such | me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.”<|quote|>“Well, you ought to see her. She’s—”</|quote|>Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her | was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.”<|quote|>“Well, you ought to see her. She’s—”</|quote|>Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the | “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.”<|quote|>“Well, you ought to see her. She’s—”</|quote|>Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. “Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. “You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—” “I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.” “Hulking,” insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself. “You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?” I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way. “Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read The Rise of the Coloured Empires by this man Goddard?” “Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone. “Well, it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don’t look out the white race will be—will be | surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.”<|quote|>“Well, you ought to see her. She’s—”</|quote|>Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her | The Great Gatsby |
Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. | No speaker | ought to see her. She’s—”<|quote|>Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder.</|quote|>“What you doing, Nick?” “I’m | seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—”<|quote|>Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder.</|quote|>“What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” | and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—”<|quote|>Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder.</|quote|>“What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy | I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—”<|quote|>Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder.</|quote|>“What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently | It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—”<|quote|>Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder.</|quote|>“What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of | for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—”<|quote|>Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder.</|quote|>“What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In | a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—”<|quote|>Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder.</|quote|>“What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. “Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. “You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—” “I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.” “Hulking,” insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself. “You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?” I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way. “Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read The Rise of the Coloured Empires by this man Goddard?” “Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone. “Well, it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don’t look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.” “Tom’s getting very profound,” said Daisy, with an expression | house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—”<|quote|>Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder.</|quote|>“What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why | The Great Gatsby |
“What you doing, Nick?” | Tom | his hand on my shoulder.<|quote|>“What you doing, Nick?”</|quote|>“I’m a bond man.” “Who | the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder.<|quote|>“What you doing, Nick?”</|quote|>“I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never | Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder.<|quote|>“What you doing, Nick?”</|quote|>“I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at | had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder.<|quote|>“What you doing, Nick?”</|quote|>“I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as | an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder.<|quote|>“What you doing, Nick?”</|quote|>“I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you | forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder.<|quote|>“What you doing, Nick?”</|quote|>“I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be | I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder.<|quote|>“What you doing, Nick?”</|quote|>“I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. “Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. “You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—” “I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.” “Hulking,” insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself. “You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?” I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way. “Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read The Rise of the Coloured Empires by this man Goddard?” “Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone. “Well, it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don’t look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.” “Tom’s getting very profound,” said Daisy, with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. “He | low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder.<|quote|>“What you doing, Nick?”</|quote|>“I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in | The Great Gatsby |
“I’m a bond man.” | Nick | shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?”<|quote|>“I’m a bond man.”</|quote|>“Who with?” I told him. | rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?”<|quote|>“I’m a bond man.”</|quote|>“Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he | “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?”<|quote|>“I’m a bond man.”</|quote|>“Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he | through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?”<|quote|>“I’m a bond man.”</|quote|>“Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did | that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?”<|quote|>“I’m a bond man.”</|quote|>“Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done | expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?”<|quote|>“I’m a bond man.”</|quote|>“Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in | impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?”<|quote|>“I’m a bond man.”</|quote|>“Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. “Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. “You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—” “I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.” “Hulking,” insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself. “You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?” I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way. “Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read The Rise of the Coloured Empires by this man Goddard?” “Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone. “Well, it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don’t look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.” “Tom’s getting very profound,” said Daisy, with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. “He reads deep books with | room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?”<|quote|>“I’m a bond man.”</|quote|>“Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. “Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. “You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—” “I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, | The Great Gatsby |
“Who with?” | Tom | Nick?” “I’m a bond man.”<|quote|>“Who with?”</|quote|>I told him. “Never heard | my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.”<|quote|>“Who with?”</|quote|>I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. | the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.”<|quote|>“Who with?”</|quote|>I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert | miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.”<|quote|>“Who with?”</|quote|>I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for | played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.”<|quote|>“Who with?”</|quote|>I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond | absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.”<|quote|>“Who with?”</|quote|>I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” | of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.”<|quote|>“Who with?”</|quote|>I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. “Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. “You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—” “I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.” “Hulking,” insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself. “You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?” I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way. “Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read The Rise of the Coloured Empires by this man Goddard?” “Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone. “Well, it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don’t look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.” “Tom’s getting very profound,” said Daisy, with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. “He reads deep books with long words | exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.”<|quote|>“Who with?”</|quote|>I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” | The Great Gatsby |
I told him. | No speaker | a bond man.” “Who with?”<|quote|>I told him.</|quote|>“Never heard of them,” he | “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?”<|quote|>I told him.</|quote|>“Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. | “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?”<|quote|>I told him.</|quote|>“Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. | she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?”<|quote|>I told him.</|quote|>“Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and | Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?”<|quote|>I told him.</|quote|>“Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked | little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?”<|quote|>I told him.</|quote|>“Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at | and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?”<|quote|>I told him.</|quote|>“Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. “Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. “You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—” “I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.” “Hulking,” insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself. “You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?” I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way. “Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read The Rise of the Coloured Empires by this man Goddard?” “Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone. “Well, it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don’t look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.” “Tom’s getting very profound,” said Daisy, with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. “He reads deep books with long words in them. What | younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?”<|quote|>I told him.</|quote|>“Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to | The Great Gatsby |
“Never heard of them,” | Tom | “Who with?” I told him.<|quote|>“Never heard of them,”</|quote|>he remarked decisively. This annoyed | Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him.<|quote|>“Never heard of them,”</|quote|>he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered | “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him.<|quote|>“Never heard of them,”</|quote|>he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God | “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him.<|quote|>“Never heard of them,”</|quote|>he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of | sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him.<|quote|>“Never heard of them,”</|quote|>he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering | I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him.<|quote|>“Never heard of them,”</|quote|>he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do | to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him.<|quote|>“Never heard of them,”</|quote|>he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. “Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. “You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—” “I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.” “Hulking,” insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself. “You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?” I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way. “Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read The Rise of the Coloured Empires by this man Goddard?” “Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone. “Well, it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don’t look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.” “Tom’s getting very profound,” said Daisy, with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. “He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we—” | were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him.<|quote|>“Never heard of them,”</|quote|>he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, | The Great Gatsby |
he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. | No speaker | him. “Never heard of them,”<|quote|>he remarked decisively. This annoyed me.</|quote|>“You will,” I answered shortly. | man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,”<|quote|>he remarked decisively. This annoyed me.</|quote|>“You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay | years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,”<|quote|>he remarked decisively. This annoyed me.</|quote|>“You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” | desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,”<|quote|>he remarked decisively. This annoyed me.</|quote|>“You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into | bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,”<|quote|>he remarked decisively. This annoyed me.</|quote|>“You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” | came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,”<|quote|>he remarked decisively. This annoyed me.</|quote|>“You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest | some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,”<|quote|>he remarked decisively. This annoyed me.</|quote|>“You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. “Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. “You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—” “I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.” “Hulking,” insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself. “You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?” I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way. “Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read The Rise of the Coloured Empires by this man Goddard?” “Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone. “Well, it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don’t look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.” “Tom’s getting very profound,” said Daisy, with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. “He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we—” “Well, these books are all scientific,” | if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,”<|quote|>he remarked decisively. This annoyed me.</|quote|>“You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned | The Great Gatsby |
“You will,” | Nick | remarked decisively. This annoyed me.<|quote|>“You will,”</|quote|>I answered shortly. “You will | “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me.<|quote|>“You will,”</|quote|>I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the | her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me.<|quote|>“You will,”</|quote|>I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this | left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me.<|quote|>“You will,”</|quote|>I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. | and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me.<|quote|>“You will,”</|quote|>I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed | p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me.<|quote|>“You will,”</|quote|>I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of | own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me.<|quote|>“You will,”</|quote|>I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. “Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. “You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—” “I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.” “Hulking,” insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself. “You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?” I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way. “Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read The Rise of the Coloured Empires by this man Goddard?” “Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone. “Well, it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don’t look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.” “Tom’s getting very profound,” said Daisy, with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. “He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we—” “Well, these books are all scientific,” insisted Tom, | the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me.<|quote|>“You will,”</|quote|>I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded | The Great Gatsby |
I answered shortly. | No speaker | This annoyed me. “You will,”<|quote|>I answered shortly.</|quote|>“You will if you stay | of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,”<|quote|>I answered shortly.</|quote|>“You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll | “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,”<|quote|>I answered shortly.</|quote|>“You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker | wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,”<|quote|>I answered shortly.</|quote|>“You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she | bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,”<|quote|>I answered shortly.</|quote|>“You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. | happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,”<|quote|>I answered shortly.</|quote|>“You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and | talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,”<|quote|>I answered shortly.</|quote|>“You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. “Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. “You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—” “I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.” “Hulking,” insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself. “You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?” I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way. “Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read The Rise of the Coloured Empires by this man Goddard?” “Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone. “Well, it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don’t look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.” “Tom’s getting very profound,” said Daisy, with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. “He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we—” “Well, these books are all scientific,” insisted Tom, glancing at her | began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,”<|quote|>I answered shortly.</|quote|>“You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. “Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. “You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—” “I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.” “Hulking,” insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain | The Great Gatsby |
“You will if you stay in the East.” | Nick | “You will,” I answered shortly.<|quote|>“You will if you stay in the East.”</|quote|>“Oh, I’ll stay in the | remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly.<|quote|>“You will if you stay in the East.”</|quote|>“Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he | to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly.<|quote|>“You will if you stay in the East.”</|quote|>“Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it | as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly.<|quote|>“You will if you stay in the East.”</|quote|>“Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for | but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly.<|quote|>“You will if you stay in the East.”</|quote|>“Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an | again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly.<|quote|>“You will if you stay in the East.”</|quote|>“Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the | few minutes on the sunny porch. “I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly.<|quote|>“You will if you stay in the East.”</|quote|>“Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. “Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. “You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—” “I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.” “Hulking,” insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself. “You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?” I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way. “Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read The Rise of the Coloured Empires by this man Goddard?” “Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone. “Well, it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don’t look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.” “Tom’s getting very profound,” said Daisy, with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. “He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we—” “Well, these books are all scientific,” insisted Tom, glancing at her impatiently. “This fellow has worked out the whole | room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly.<|quote|>“You will if you stay in the East.”</|quote|>“Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” | The Great Gatsby |
“Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” | Tom | you stay in the East.”<|quote|>“Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,”</|quote|>he said, glancing at Daisy | answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.”<|quote|>“Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,”</|quote|>he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, | been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.”<|quote|>“Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,”</|quote|>he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I | wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.”<|quote|>“Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,”</|quote|>he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at | that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.”<|quote|>“Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,”</|quote|>he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body | and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.”<|quote|>“Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,”</|quote|>he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” | a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.”<|quote|>“Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,”</|quote|>he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. “Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. “You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—” “I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.” “Hulking,” insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself. “You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?” I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way. “Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read The Rise of the Coloured Empires by this man Goddard?” “Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone. “Well, it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don’t look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.” “Tom’s getting very profound,” said Daisy, with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. “He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we—” “Well, these books are all scientific,” insisted Tom, glancing at her impatiently. “This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It’s up to us, who are the dominant | voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.”<|quote|>“Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,”</|quote|>he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. | The Great Gatsby |
he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. | No speaker | the East, don’t you worry,”<|quote|>he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more.</|quote|>“I’d be a God damned | East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,”<|quote|>he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more.</|quote|>“I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” | his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,”<|quote|>he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more.</|quote|>“I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and | Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,”<|quote|>he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more.</|quote|>“I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss | to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,”<|quote|>he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more.</|quote|>“I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite | into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,”<|quote|>he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more.</|quote|>“I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting | about restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,”<|quote|>he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more.</|quote|>“I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. “Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. “You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—” “I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.” “Hulking,” insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself. “You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?” I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way. “Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read The Rise of the Coloured Empires by this man Goddard?” “Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone. “Well, it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don’t look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.” “Tom’s getting very profound,” said Daisy, with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. “He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we—” “Well, these books are all scientific,” insisted Tom, glancing at her impatiently. “This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It’s up to us, who are the dominant race, to watch out or these other races will have control of things.” “We’ve got to beat them | back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,”<|quote|>he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more.</|quote|>“I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. “Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. “You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—” “I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.” “Hulking,” insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening | The Great Gatsby |
“I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” | Tom | were alert for something more.<|quote|>“I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.”</|quote|>At this point Miss Baker | at me, as if he were alert for something more.<|quote|>“I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.”</|quote|>At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness | “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more.<|quote|>“I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.”</|quote|>At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into | “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more.<|quote|>“I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.”</|quote|>At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. | a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more.<|quote|>“I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.”</|quote|>At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It | That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more.<|quote|>“I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.”</|quote|>At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She | including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more.<|quote|>“I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.”</|quote|>At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. “Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. “You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—” “I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.” “Hulking,” insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself. “You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?” I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way. “Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read The Rise of the Coloured Empires by this man Goddard?” “Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone. “Well, it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don’t look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.” “Tom’s getting very profound,” said Daisy, with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. “He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we—” “Well, these books are all scientific,” insisted Tom, glancing at her impatiently. “This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It’s up to us, who are the dominant race, to watch out or these other races will have control of things.” “We’ve got to beat them down,” whispered Daisy, winking ferociously toward the fervent sun. “You | The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more.<|quote|>“I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.”</|quote|>At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the | The Great Gatsby |
At this point Miss Baker said: | No speaker | fool to live anywhere else.”<|quote|>At this point Miss Baker said:</|quote|>“Absolutely!” with such suddenness that | “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.”<|quote|>At this point Miss Baker said:</|quote|>“Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first | “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.”<|quote|>At this point Miss Baker said:</|quote|>“Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, | her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.”<|quote|>At this point Miss Baker said:</|quote|>“Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host | hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.”<|quote|>At this point Miss Baker said:</|quote|>“Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I | murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.”<|quote|>At this point Miss Baker said:</|quote|>“Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do | acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.”<|quote|>At this point Miss Baker said:</|quote|>“Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. “Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. “You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—” “I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.” “Hulking,” insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself. “You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?” I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way. “Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read The Rise of the Coloured Empires by this man Goddard?” “Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone. “Well, it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don’t look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.” “Tom’s getting very profound,” said Daisy, with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. “He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we—” “Well, these books are all scientific,” insisted Tom, glancing at her impatiently. “This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It’s up to us, who are the dominant race, to watch out or these other races will have control of things.” “We’ve got to beat them down,” whispered Daisy, winking ferociously toward the fervent sun. “You ought to live in California—” began | a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.”<|quote|>At this point Miss Baker said:</|quote|>“Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another | The Great Gatsby |
“Absolutely!” | Jordan | this point Miss Baker said:<|quote|>“Absolutely!”</|quote|>with such suddenness that I | to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said:<|quote|>“Absolutely!”</|quote|>with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word | will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said:<|quote|>“Absolutely!”</|quote|>with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve | see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said:<|quote|>“Absolutely!”</|quote|>with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked | told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said:<|quote|>“Absolutely!”</|quote|>with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had | balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said:<|quote|>“Absolutely!”</|quote|>with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people | a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said:<|quote|>“Absolutely!”</|quote|>with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. “Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. “You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—” “I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.” “Hulking,” insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself. “You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?” I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way. “Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read The Rise of the Coloured Empires by this man Goddard?” “Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone. “Well, it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don’t look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.” “Tom’s getting very profound,” said Daisy, with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. “He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we—” “Well, these books are all scientific,” insisted Tom, glancing at her impatiently. “This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It’s up to us, who are the dominant race, to watch out or these other races will have control of things.” “We’ve got to beat them down,” whispered Daisy, winking ferociously toward the fervent sun. “You ought to live in California—” began Miss | and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said:<|quote|>“Absolutely!”</|quote|>with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out | The Great Gatsby |
with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. | No speaker | point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!”<|quote|>with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room.</|quote|>“I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve | live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!”<|quote|>with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room.</|quote|>“I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa | if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!”<|quote|>with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room.</|quote|>“I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely | her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!”<|quote|>with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room.</|quote|>“I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed | her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!”<|quote|>with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room.</|quote|>“I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner | girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!”<|quote|>with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room.</|quote|>“I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. “Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. “You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you | snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!”<|quote|>with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room.</|quote|>“I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. “Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. “You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—” “I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.” “Hulking,” insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself. “You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?” I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way. “Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read The Rise of the Coloured Empires by this man Goddard?” “Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone. “Well, it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don’t look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.” “Tom’s getting very profound,” said Daisy, with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. “He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we—” “Well, these books are all scientific,” insisted Tom, glancing at her impatiently. “This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It’s up to us, who are the dominant race, to watch out or these other races will have control of things.” “We’ve got to beat them down,” whispered Daisy, winking ferociously toward the fervent sun. “You ought to live in California—” began Miss Baker, but Tom interrupted her by shifting heavily in his chair. “This idea is that we’re Nordics. I am, and you are, and you are, and—” After an infinitesimal hesitation he included Daisy with a slight nod, and she winked at me again. “—And we’ve | Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!”<|quote|>with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room.</|quote|>“I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. “Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. “You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—” “I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.” “Hulking,” insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant | The Great Gatsby |
“I’m stiff,” | Jordan | stood up into the room.<|quote|>“I’m stiff,”</|quote|>she complained, “I’ve been lying | series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room.<|quote|>“I’m stiff,”</|quote|>she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as | point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room.<|quote|>“I’m stiff,”</|quote|>she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” | I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room.<|quote|>“I’m stiff,”</|quote|>she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at | wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room.<|quote|>“I’m stiff,”</|quote|>she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; | head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room.<|quote|>“I’m stiff,”</|quote|>she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. “Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. “You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do | either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room.<|quote|>“I’m stiff,”</|quote|>she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. “Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. “You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—” “I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.” “Hulking,” insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself. “You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?” I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way. “Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read The Rise of the Coloured Empires by this man Goddard?” “Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone. “Well, it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don’t look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.” “Tom’s getting very profound,” said Daisy, with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. “He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we—” “Well, these books are all scientific,” insisted Tom, glancing at her impatiently. “This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It’s up to us, who are the dominant race, to watch out or these other races will have control of things.” “We’ve got to beat them down,” whispered Daisy, winking ferociously toward the fervent sun. “You ought to live in California—” began Miss Baker, but Tom interrupted her by shifting heavily in his chair. “This idea is that we’re Nordics. I am, and you are, and you are, and—” After an infinitesimal hesitation he included Daisy with a slight nod, and she winked at me again. “—And we’ve produced all | murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room.<|quote|>“I’m stiff,”</|quote|>she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. “Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. “You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—” “I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.” “Hulking,” insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself. “You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you | The Great Gatsby |
she complained, | No speaker | into the room. “I’m stiff,”<|quote|>she complained,</|quote|>“I’ve been lying on that | rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,”<|quote|>she complained,</|quote|>“I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as | Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,”<|quote|>she complained,</|quote|>“I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host | shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,”<|quote|>she complained,</|quote|>“I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She | black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,”<|quote|>she complained,</|quote|>“I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his | again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,”<|quote|>she complained,</|quote|>“I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. “Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. “You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s | The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,”<|quote|>she complained,</|quote|>“I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. “Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. “You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—” “I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.” “Hulking,” insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself. “You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?” I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way. “Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read The Rise of the Coloured Empires by this man Goddard?” “Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone. “Well, it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don’t look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.” “Tom’s getting very profound,” said Daisy, with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. “He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we—” “Well, these books are all scientific,” insisted Tom, glancing at her impatiently. “This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It’s up to us, who are the dominant race, to watch out or these other races will have control of things.” “We’ve got to beat them down,” whispered Daisy, winking ferociously toward the fervent sun. “You ought to live in California—” began Miss Baker, but Tom interrupted her by shifting heavily in his chair. “This idea is that we’re Nordics. I am, and you are, and you are, and—” After an infinitesimal hesitation he included Daisy with a slight nod, and she winked at me again. “—And we’ve produced all the things | the room. “I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.) At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. “Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. “The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.” “How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” “I’d like to.” “She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” “Never.” “Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder. “What you doing, Nick?” “I’m a bond man.” “Who with?” I told him. “Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. This annoyed me. “You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” “Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. “I’m stiff,”<|quote|>she complained,</|quote|>“I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.” “Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.” “No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” Her host looked at her incredulously. “You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. “You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.” “I don’t know a single—” “You must know Gatsby.” “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind. “Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.” “We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed. “All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?” Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger. “Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. “You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—” “I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.” “Hulking,” insisted Daisy. Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself. “You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?” I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way. “Civilization’s going to pieces,” | The Great Gatsby |
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