fall into a deep sleep, with a powerful hope in him that he will find relief when he awakes.
W HERE A M I?
Thus it was for me, around Christmas, when this affliction, the disease of the bursting belly, came upon me and worked its mischief to render me insensible. Instead of going down to Hell or ascending to Heaven, as I had done many times before, I perceived that I was in a tightly packed place, on a cold, wide, sloping platform, packed from one end to the other by a horrible crowd of people that were slowly moving down the incline. After a long delay, shuffling and shoving, we reached another, more even platform, and the people spread out away from me a little. I put down the big heavy bag which I suddenly felt in my grasp, and I started fixing my cravat and staring about, trying to make sense of the scene around me.
Where in the world am I?, I wondered. Am I in Ireland or in Aran or in the deepest recesses of the devil’s Hell? To my right I spotted a pious-looking priest tying his shoelaces, and that settled the case about Hell, but I was looking and listening for another while yet before I realised that I was standing on a harbour.
I C AME A BOARD A S HIP
“It’s likely,” I said to myself, “that I just came off that ship.” But, dear reader, what a ship! It was a narrow, streamlined, elegant vessel that was resting in the water, shivering and trembling as though she was impatient to be released back out onto the deep, slicing through the waves and charging off on her way, just like a hound on the hunt, seizing the wind before her and racing ahead of the gale behind. . . .
Ah, a thousand pities seven times over, gentle reader! How empty and miserly is the language of today, when we try to speak of unearthly wonder! There is neither oratory in the mouth nor literature in the pen for it, and even if there were, neither would suffice in this particular instance.
I was startled when I noticed a vicious little busybody opening my bag, trying, or so I thought, to steal my night-clothes.
“Well now!” I said, giving him a little kick in the ankle. He saw the temper on me and raised his head.
“Do you have any whiskey?” he asked.
“The saints in Heaven know that there’s a shortage of spirits going on,” I said, sniggering. “But that whole business is behind me now for a long time. I’d love a little glass just now, all the same: never before in my life have my senses been so deranged!”
A H UNDRED Y EARS H ENCE!
“You have to pay five shillings on this hat,” he said, pulling a new hat out of the depths of the bag. I paid the money without saying a word, and he gave me a receipt; I looked at it, and the date filled me with astonishment— 12/02/2032 .
“I thought,” I said, “that it was only the eleventh.”
I picked up my bag. I felt those people moving over yonder towards the long electric train that was standing near us; I pushed myself over, with great struggling and shoving, and I was about to board when I realised that someone behind me was trying to catch my attention. I turned, and I saw a small, low fellow, as broad as three men, a sharp, bitter face on him, and a strange squareness to his shoulders that brought the image of a bull to mind. An Englishman, I said to myself, if God ever created one. He spoke, and I knew from his accent and his words that I was correct.
A N E NGLISHMAN , T O B E S URE
“ Excuse me ,” he said shyly, “ but do you speak English? ” 1
“I do indeed,” I said politely, answering in English. “If you need my assistance or my counsel, you shall have them in abundance.”
“ Well, I’m in a bit of a hole ,” he said timidly. “ You see, not speaking your beastly language here, I am rather at sea. I meant to buy a phrasebook before I left Holyhead, but I forgot about it in the rush of getting away—and here I am. Not one of these officials knows what the dickens I’m talking about. What I want to know is the address of an English-speaking
W HERE A M I?
Thus it was for me, around Christmas, when this affliction, the disease of the bursting belly, came upon me and worked its mischief to render me insensible. Instead of going down to Hell or ascending to Heaven, as I had done many times before, I perceived that I was in a tightly packed place, on a cold, wide, sloping platform, packed from one end to the other by a horrible crowd of people that were slowly moving down the incline. After a long delay, shuffling and shoving, we reached another, more even platform, and the people spread out away from me a little. I put down the big heavy bag which I suddenly felt in my grasp, and I started fixing my cravat and staring about, trying to make sense of the scene around me.
Where in the world am I?, I wondered. Am I in Ireland or in Aran or in the deepest recesses of the devil’s Hell? To my right I spotted a pious-looking priest tying his shoelaces, and that settled the case about Hell, but I was looking and listening for another while yet before I realised that I was standing on a harbour.
I C AME A BOARD A S HIP
“It’s likely,” I said to myself, “that I just came off that ship.” But, dear reader, what a ship! It was a narrow, streamlined, elegant vessel that was resting in the water, shivering and trembling as though she was impatient to be released back out onto the deep, slicing through the waves and charging off on her way, just like a hound on the hunt, seizing the wind before her and racing ahead of the gale behind. . . .
Ah, a thousand pities seven times over, gentle reader! How empty and miserly is the language of today, when we try to speak of unearthly wonder! There is neither oratory in the mouth nor literature in the pen for it, and even if there were, neither would suffice in this particular instance.
I was startled when I noticed a vicious little busybody opening my bag, trying, or so I thought, to steal my night-clothes.
“Well now!” I said, giving him a little kick in the ankle. He saw the temper on me and raised his head.
“Do you have any whiskey?” he asked.
“The saints in Heaven know that there’s a shortage of spirits going on,” I said, sniggering. “But that whole business is behind me now for a long time. I’d love a little glass just now, all the same: never before in my life have my senses been so deranged!”
A H UNDRED Y EARS H ENCE!
“You have to pay five shillings on this hat,” he said, pulling a new hat out of the depths of the bag. I paid the money without saying a word, and he gave me a receipt; I looked at it, and the date filled me with astonishment— 12/02/2032 .
“I thought,” I said, “that it was only the eleventh.”
I picked up my bag. I felt those people moving over yonder towards the long electric train that was standing near us; I pushed myself over, with great struggling and shoving, and I was about to board when I realised that someone behind me was trying to catch my attention. I turned, and I saw a small, low fellow, as broad as three men, a sharp, bitter face on him, and a strange squareness to his shoulders that brought the image of a bull to mind. An Englishman, I said to myself, if God ever created one. He spoke, and I knew from his accent and his words that I was correct.
A N E NGLISHMAN , T O B E S URE
“ Excuse me ,” he said shyly, “ but do you speak English? ” 1
“I do indeed,” I said politely, answering in English. “If you need my assistance or my counsel, you shall have them in abundance.”
“ Well, I’m in a bit of a hole ,” he said timidly. “ You see, not speaking your beastly language here, I am rather at sea. I meant to buy a phrasebook before I left Holyhead, but I forgot about it in the rush of getting away—and here I am. Not one of these officials knows what the dickens I’m talking about. What I want to know is the address of an English-speaking
Similar Books
The Secret Lives of Married Women
Elissa Wald
I Drink for a Reason
David Cross
Dead Secret
Janice Frost
Darkest Love
Melody Tweedy
The Wolfe Widow (A Book Collector Mystery)
Victoria Abbott
Every Part of You Taunts Me
Megan Hart
Full Bloom
Jayne Ann Krentz
Closer Home
Kerry Anne King
Sweet Salvation
Maddie Taylor