Hero of Romance , livre ebook

The Floating Press - Richard Marsh

Découvre YouScribe en t'inscrivant gratuitement

Je m'inscris

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

165 pages

English

Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

A propos
Informations
Extrait

Description

Fourteen-year-old Bertie Bailey is not exactly an academic powerhouse -- instead, he's the kind of kid who's likely to be forced into detention for failing to complete his assignments. When one such punishment pushes him over the line into complete rebellion, it sets off a chain of events that no one could have predicted.

Informations

Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 octobre 2015
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781776593033
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

A HERO OF ROMANCE
* * *
RICHARD MARSH

*
A Hero of Romance First published in 1900 Epub ISBN 978-1-77659-303-3 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77659-304-0 © 2012 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
*
Chapter I - Punishment at Mecklemburg House Chapter II - Tutor Baiting Chapter III - At Mother Huffham's Chapter IV - A Little Drive Chapter V - An Evening at Washington Villa Chapter VI - Afterwards Chapter VII - The Return of the Wanderers Chapter VIII - Preparing for Flight Chapter IX - The Start Chapter X - Another Little Drive Chapter XI - The Original Badger Chapter XII - A "Doss" House Chapter XIII - In Petersham Park Chapter XIV - In Trouble Chapter XV - Out of the Frying-Pan into the Fire Chapter XVI - The Captain's Room Chapter XVII - Two Men and a Boy Chapter XVIII - The Boat-Train Chapter XIX - To Jersey with a Thief Chapter XX - Exit Captain Tom Chapter XXI - The Disadvantages of Not Being Able to Speak French Chapter XXII - The End of the Journey Chapter XXIII - The Land of Golden Dreams
Chapter I - Punishment at Mecklemburg House
*
It was about as miserable an afternoon as one could wish to see. Mayis the poet's month, but there was nothing of poetry about it then.True, it was early in the month, but February never boasted weather ofmore unmitigated misery. At half-past two it was so dark in theschoolroom of Mecklemburg House that one could with difficulty see toread. Outside a cold drizzling rain was falling, a shrieking east windwas rattling the windows in their frames, and a sullen haze was hidingthe leaden sky. As unsatisfactory a specimen of the English spring asone could very well desire.
To make things better, it was half-holiday. Not that it much matteredto the young gentleman who was seated in the schoolroom; it was nohalf-holiday to him. A rather tall lad, some fourteen years of age,broad and strongly built. This was Bertie Bailey.
Master Bertie Bailey was kept in; and the outrage this was to hisfeelings was altogether too deep for words. To keep him in!—no wonderthe heavens frowned at such a crime!
Master Bertie Bailey was seated at a desk very much the worse forwear; a long desk, divided into separate compartments, which wereintended to accommodate about a dozen boys. He had his arms upon thedesk, his face rested on his hands, and he was staring into vacancywith an air of tragic gloom.
At the raised desk which stood in front of him before the window wasseated Mr. Till. Mr. Till's general bearing and demeanour was not muchmore jovial than Master Bertie Bailey's; he was the tyrant usher whohad kept the youthful victim in. It was with a certain grim pleasurethat Bertie realized that Mr. Till's enjoyment of the keeping-in wasperhaps not much more than his own.
Mr. Till had a newspaper in his hand, and had apparently read itthrough, advertisements and all. He looked over the top of it atBertie.
"Don't you think you'd better get on with those lines?" he asked.
Bertie had a hundred lines of Paradise Lost to copy out. He paid noattention to the inquiry; he did not even give a sign that he wasaware he had been spoken to, but continued to sit with his eyes fixedon nothing, with the same air of mysterious gloom.
"How many have you done?" Mr. Till came down to see. There was a torncopy of Milton's poems lying unopened beside Bertie on the desk; infront of him a slate which was quite clean, and no visible signs of aslate pencil. Mr. Till took up the slate and carefully examined it foranything in the shape of lines.
"So you haven't begun?—why haven't you begun?" No answer. "Do youhear me? why haven't you begun?"
Without troubling himself to alter in any way his picturesque posture,Bertie made reply,—
"I haven't got a slate pencil."
"You haven't got a slate pencil? Do you mean to tell me you've satthere for a whole hour without asking for a slate pencil? I'll soonget you one."
Mr. Till went to his desk and produced a piece about as long as hislittle finger, placing it in front of Bertie. Bertie eyed it from acorner of his eye.
"It isn't long enough."
"Don't tell me; take your arms off the desk and begin those lines atonce."
Bertie very leisurely took his arms off the desk, and delicatelylifted the piece of slate pencil.
"It wants sharpening," he said. He began to look for his knife,standing up to facilitate the search. He hunted in all his pockets,turning out the contents of each upon the desk; finally, from thelabyrinthine depths of some mysterious depository in the lining of hiswaistcoat, he produced the ghost of an ancient pocket-knife. As thoughthey were fragile treasures of the most priceless kind, he carefullyreplaced the contents of his pockets. Then, at his ease, he commencedto give an artistic point to his two-inch piece of slate pencil. Mr.Till, who had taken up a position in front of the window with hishands under his coat tails, watched the proceedings with anything buta gratified countenance.
"That will do," he grimly remarked, when Bertie had considerablyreduced the original size of his piece of pencil by attempting toproduce a point of needlelike fineness. Bertie wiped his knife uponhis coat-sleeve, removed the pencil dust with his pocket-handkerchief,and commenced to write. Before he had got half-way through the firstline a catastrophe occurred.
"I've broken the point," he observed, looking up at Mr. Till withinnocence in his eyes.
"I tell you what it is," said Mr. Till, "if you don't let me havethose lines in less than no time I'll double them. Do you think I'mgoing to stop here all the afternoon?"
"You needn't stop," suggested Bertie, looking at his broken pencil.
"I daresay!" snorted Mr. Till. The last time Bertie had been leftalone in the schoolroom on the occasion of his being kept in, he hadperpetrated atrocities which had made Mr. Fletcher's hair stand up onend. Mr. Fletcher was the head-master. Orders had been given thatwhenever Bertie was punished, somebody was to stay in with him. "Now,none of your nonsense; you go on with those lines."
Bertie bent his head with a studious air. A hideous scratching noisearose from the slate. Mr. Till clapped his hands to his ears.
"Stop that noise!"
"If you please, sir, I think this pencil scratches," Bertie said.Considering that he was holding the pencil perpendicularly, thecircumstance was not surprising.
"Take my advice, Bailey, and do those lines." Advancing with aninflamed countenance, Mr. Till stood over the offending pupil.Resuming his studious posture Bertie recommenced to write. He wrotetwo lines, not too quickly, nor by any means too well, but still hewrote them. In the middle of the third line another catastrophehappened.
"Please, sir, I've broken the pencil right in two." It was quiteunnecessary for him to say so, the fact was self-evident, though withso small a piece it had required no slight exertion of strength andsome dexterous manipulation to accomplish the feat. The answer was abox on the ears.
"What did you do that for?" asked Bertie, rising from his seat, andrubbing the injured portion with his hand.
Now it was distinctly understood that Mecklemburg House CollegiateSchool was conducted on the principle of no corporal punishment. Itwas a prominent line in the prospectus. " Under no circumstances iscorporal punishment administered ." As a rule the principle wasconsistently carried out to its legitimate conclusion, not with thecompletest satisfaction to every one concerned. Yet Mr. Fletcher, oneof the most longsuffering of men, and by no means the strictestdisciplinarian conceivable, had been more than once roused intoadministering short and sharp justice upon refractory youth. But whatwas excusable in Mr. Fletcher was not to be dreamed of in thephilosophy of anybody else. For an assistant-master to strike a pupilwas a crime; and Mr. Till knew it, and Master Bertie Bailey knew ittoo.
"What did you do that for?" repeated Bertie.
Mr. Till was crimson. He was not a hasty tempered man, but to-dayMaster Bertie Bailey had been a burden greater than he could bear. Yethe had very literally made a false stroke, and Bertie was just theyoung gentleman to make the most of it.
"If I were to tell Mr. Fletcher, he'd turn you off," said Bertie. "Heturned Mr. Knox off for hitting Harry Goddard."
Harry Goddard's only relation was a maiden aunt, and this maiden aunthad peculiar opinions. In her opinion for anybody to lay a punitoryhand upon her nephew was to commit an act tantamount to sacrilege.Harry had had a little difference with Emmett minor, and had borneaway the blushing honours of a bloody nose and a black eye withconsiderable sang-froid ; but when Mr. Knox resented his filling hisbest hat with half-melted snow by presenting him with two or threesmart taps upon a particular portion of his frame, Harry wrote home tohis aunt to complain of the indignity he had endured. The result wasthat the ancient spinster at once removed the outraged youth from thesanguinary precincts of Mecklemburg House, and that Mr. Fletcherdismissed the offending usher.
As Mr. Till stood eyeing his refractory pupil, all this came forciblyto his mind. He knew something more than Bertie did; he knew that whenMr. Fletcher, smarting at the loss of a remunerative pupil, had madeshort work of his unfortunate assistant, he had also taken advantageof the occasion to call Mr. Till into his magisterial presence, and tothen and there inform him, that should he at any time lay his