“Bob!” I shouted. No answer. “Bob!” A rapid crescendo of snores ending in a prolonged gasp. “Wake up, Bob!” “What the deuce is the row?” said a very sleepy voice. “It’s nearly breakfast-time,” I explained. “Bother breakfast-time!” said the rebellious spirit in the bed. “And here’s a letter, Bob,” said I. “Why on earth couldn’t […]
“It air strange, it air,” he was saying as I opened the door of the room where our social little semi-literary society met; “but I could tell you queerer things than that ’ere—almighty queer things. You can’t learn everything out of books, sirs, nohow. You see, it ain’t the men as can string English together
A South African Story Do I know why Tom Donahue is called “Lucky Tom?” Yes; I do; and that is more than one in ten of those who call him so can say. I have knocked about a deal in my time, and seen some strange sights, but none stranger than the way in which
THE GHOSTS OF GORESTHORPE GRANGE. I am sure that Nature never intended me to be a self-made man. There are times when I can hardly bring myself to realize that twenty years of my life were spent behind the counter of a grocer’s shop in the East End of London, and that it was through
Abe Durton’s cabin was not beautiful. People have been heard to assert that it was ugly, and, even after the fashion of Harvey’s Sluice, have gone the length of prefixing their adjective with a forcible expletive which emphasized their criticism. Abe, however, was a stolid and easy-going man, on whose mind the remarks of an
“All aboard?” said the captain. “All aboard, sir!” said the mate. “Then stand by to let her go.” It was nine o’clock on a Wednesday morning. The good ship Spartan was lying off Boston Quay with her cargo under hatches, her passengers shipped, and everything prepared for a start. The warning whistle had been sounded
“Robinson, the boss wants you!” “The dickens he does!” thought I; for Mr. Dickson, Odessa agent of Bailey & Co., corn merchants, was a bit of a Tartar, as I had learned to my cost. “What’s the row now?” I demanded of my fellow clerk; “has he got scent of our Nicolaieff escapade, or what
On the fourth day of March, in the year 1867, I being at that time in my five-and-twentieth year, I wrote the following words in my note-book, the result of much mental perturbation and conflict: “The solar system, amid a countless number of other systems as large as itself, rolls ever silently through space in
On December 3, 1861, Dr. Otto von Hopstein, Regius Professor of Comparative Anatomy of the University of Buda-Pesth, and Curator of the Academical Museum, was foully and brutally murdered within a stone-throw of the entrance to the college quadrangle. Besides the eminent position of the victim and his popularity among both students and townsfolk, there
He was known in the Gulch as the Reverend Elias B. Hopkins, but it was generally understood that the title was an honorary one, extorted by his many eminent qualities, and not borne out by any legal claim which he could adduce. “The Parson” was another of his sobriquets, which was sufficiently distinctive in a
