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Reading books fiction Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself.



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The genre of fiction is interesting to read not only by the process of cognition and the desire to empathize with the fate of the hero, this genre is interesting for the ability to rethink one's own life. Of course the reader may accept the author's point of view or disagree with them, but the reader should understand that the author has done a great job and deserves respect. Take a closer look at genre fiction in all its manifestations in our elibrary.



Read books online » Fiction » The Young Musician; Or, Fighting His Way by Jr. Horatio Alger (i have read the book TXT) 📖

Book online «The Young Musician; Or, Fighting His Way by Jr. Horatio Alger (i have read the book TXT) 📖». Author Jr. Horatio Alger



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that, Mr. Tucker; but I've left the spoons down-stairs!” answered his wife.

“How many are there!”

“Six. I want you to go down and get them and bring them up here, where they will be safe.”

“But suppose I should meet some of the burglars!” suggested Tucker, trembling.

“Then you must defend yourself like a man!”

“You might find me in the morning weltering in my gore!” said Joe, with an uneasy shudder.

“Are we to have the spoons stolen, then!” demanded Mrs. Tucker sharply.

“If you care so much for the spoons, Abigail, you'd better go down-stairs yourself and get 'em. I don't value them as much as my life.”

“I don't know but I will, if you'll look out of the window and see whether you can see any of the burglars outside,” responded Mrs. Tucker. “If they haven't got in yet, I'll take the risk.”

“Where did you hear 'em, Abigail?”

“Eight outside. Open the window and look out, and you may see 'em.”

Mr. Tucker was not entirely willing to do this, but still he preferred it to going down-stairs after the spoons, and accordingly he advanced, and, lifting the window, put his head out, as described at the close of the last chapter.

Philip and Frank were just ready to go when they heard the window rising, and naturally looked up in some trepidation.

“It's old Tucker!” said Frank, in a low voice.

Philip looked up, and saw that his friend was right.

Mr. Tucker had not yet discovered them, but the whisper caught his ear, and looking down he caught sight of the two boys.

In his alarm, and the obscurity of the night, he did not make out that they were boys and not men, and was about to withdraw his head in alarm, when a mischievous impulse seized Frank Dunbar.

“Give me the ball, Philip!” he said quickly.

Philip complied with his request, not understanding his intention.

Now, Frank belonged to a baseball club, and had a capital aim. He threw up the ball and struck Mr. Tucker fairly in the nose. The effect upon the terrified Joe was startling.

Full as his mind was of burglars, he fancied that it was something a great deal more deadly that had struck him.

“Oh, Abigail! I'm shot through the brain!” he moaned in anguish, as he poked in his head and fell back upon the floor.

“What do you mean, Joe?” asked his wife, in alarm, as she hastened to her prostrate husband, whose hand was pressed convulsively upon the injured organ, which, naturally ached badly with the force of the blow.

“I'm a dead man!” moaned Mr. Tucker; “and it's all your fault. You made me go to the window.”

“I don't believe you're shot at all! I didn't hear any report,” said Mrs. Tucker. “Let me see your face.”

Mr. Tucker withdrew his hand mournfully.

“You've only been struck with a rock or something,” said she, after a careful examination.

“It's bleeding!” groaned Joe, seeing a dark stain on his night-dress.

“Suppose it is—it won't kill you. I'll look out myself.”

But she saw nothing. Philip and Frank had immediately taken to flight, and vanished in the darkness.

“They've run away!” announced Mrs. Tucker. “My spoons are safe.”

“But my nose isn't,” groaned Mr. Tucker.

“You won't die this time,” said Mrs. Tucker, not very sympathetically. “Soak your nose in the wash-basin, and you'll be all right in the morning.”

The two boys were destined to have another adventure that night.





CHAPTER XVI. A NIGHT ADVENTURE.

“I didn't mean to hit him,” said Frank, as he and Philip hurried away from the poorhouse, “I only intended to give him a fright.”

“I think you have. I wonder whether he recognized us!”

“I don't believe it. He had hardly got his head out of the window before I let drive.”

“Then he won't imagine I have escaped.”

“What are your plans, Phil? Suppose they try to take you back to the poorhouse?”

“They won't get the chance. Before five o'clock to-morrow morning I shall leave Norton.”

“Leave town?” exclaimed Frank, in surprise. “And so soon?”

“Yes. There is nothing for me to do here.”

“Father would like to have you stay and assist him on the farm. He said so to me. He wouldn't be able to pay much, but I think we would have a good time together.”

Philip pressed his friend's hand warmly.

“I know we should, Frank,” he said, “but if I remained here, it would only remind me of my poor father. I would rather go out into the world and try my fortune.”

“Isn't it risky, Phil?” objected Frank doubtfully.

“I suppose it is; but I am willing to work, and I don't expect much.”

“Suppose you fall sick?”

“Then, if I can, I will come back to you and your good father and mother, and stay till I am well.”

“Promise me that, Phil?”

“I promise.”

“I wish I could go with you, Phil,” said Frank, with a boyish impulse.

“No, it wouldn't be wise for you. You have a good home, and you will be better off there than among strangers.”

“It might be your home, too, Phil.”

“Thank you; but I shall be better away from Norton for a time.”

A minute later, Frank said suddenly:

“There's Squire Pope coming. He will see you.”

“I don't care. He won't take me back.”

“Get behind the stone wall, and I will wait and interview him.”

Philip immediately followed the advice of his friend. He was curious to hear what the squire would say.

Squire Pope's eyesight

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