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. Paul Prescott's Charge by Jr. Horatio Alger (best short novels of all time .txt) 📖
- Author: Jr. Horatio Alger
Book online «Paul Prescott's Charge by Jr. Horatio Alger (best short novels of all time .txt) 📖». Author Jr. Horatio Alger
The echo had not died away, when the door was pulled suddenly open, and a dipper full of hot suds was dashed into the face of the astonished Squire, accompanied with, “Take that, you young scamp!”
“Wh—what does all this mean?” gasped Squire Newcome, nearly strangled with the suds, a part of which had found its way into his mouth.
“I beg your pardon, Squire Newcome,” said the horrified Mrs. Mudge. “I didn't mean it.”
“What did you mean, then?” demanded Squire Newcome, sternly. “I think you addressed me,—ahem!—as a scamp.”
“Oh, I didn't mean you,” said Mrs. Mudge, almost out of her wits with perplexity.
“Come in, sir, and let me give you a towel. You've no idea how I've been tried this morning.”
“I trust,” said the Squire, in his stateliest tone, “you will be able to give a satisfactory explanation of this, ahem—extraordinary proceeding.”
While Mrs. Mudge was endeavoring to sooth the ruffled dignity of the aggrieved Squire, the “young scamp,” who had caused all the mischief, made his escape through the fields.
“Oh, wasn't it bully!” he exclaimed. “I believe I shall die of laughing. I wish Paul had been here to see it. Mrs. Mudge has got herself into a scrape, now, I'm thinking.”
Having attained a safe distance from the Poorhouse, Ben doubled himself up and rolled over and over upon the grass, convulsed with laughter.
“I'd give five dollars to see it all over again,” he said to himself. “I never had such splendid fun in my life.”
Presently the Squire emerged, his tall dicky looking decidedly limp and drooping, his face expressing annoyance and outraged dignity. Mrs. Mudge attended him to the door with an expression of anxious concern.
“I guess I'd better make tracks,” said Ben to himself, “it won't do for the old gentleman to see me here, or he may smell a rat.”
He accordingly scrambled over a stone wall and lay quietly hidden behind it till he judged it would be safe to make his appearance.
XVIII. MORE ABOUT BEN.
“Benjamin,” said Squire Newcome, two days after the occurrence mentioned in the last chapter, “what made the dog howl so this morning? Was you a doing anything to him?”
“I gave him his breakfast,” said Ben, innocently. “Perhaps he was hungry, and howling for that.”
“I do not refer to that,” said the Squire. “He howled as if in pain or terror. I repeat; was you a doing anything to him?”
Ben shifted from one foot to the other, and looked out of the window.
“I desire a categorical answer,” said Squire Newcome.
“Don't know what categorical means,” said Ben, assuming a perplexed look.
“I desire you to answer me IMMEGIATELY,” explained the Squire. “What was you a doing to Watch?”
“I was tying a tin-kettle to his tail,” said Ben, a little reluctantly.
“And what was you a doing that for?” pursued the Squire.
“I wanted to see how he would look,” said Ben, glancing demurely at his father, out of the corner of his eye.
“Did it ever occur to you that it must be disagreeable to Watch to have such an appendage to his tail?” queried the Squire.
“I don't know,” said Ben.
“How should you like to have a tin pail suspended to your—ahem! your coat tail?”
“I haven't got any coat tail,” said Ben, “I wear jackets. But I think I am old enough to wear coats. Can't I have one made, father?”
“Ahem!” said the Squire, blowing his nose, “we will speak of that at some future period.”
“Fred Newell wears a coat, and he isn't any older than I am,” persisted Ben, who was desirous of interrupting his father's inquiries.
“I apprehend that we are wandering from the question,” said the Squire. “Would you like to be treated as you treated Watch?”
“No,” said Ben, slowly, “I don't know as I should.”
“Then take care not to repeat your conduct of this morning,” said his father. “Stay a moment,” as Ben was about to leave the room hastily. “I desire that you should go to the post-office and inquire for letters.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ben left the room and sauntered out in the direction of the post-office.
A chaise, driven by a stranger, stopped as it came up with him.
The driver looked towards Ben, and inquired, “Boy, is this the way to Sparta?”
Ben, who was walking leisurely along the path, whistling as he went, never turned his head.
“Are you deaf, boy?” said the driver, impatiently. “I want to know if this is the road to Sparta?”
Ben turned round.
“Fine morning, sir,” he said politely.
“I know that well enough without your telling me. Will you tell me whether this is the road to Sparta?”
Ben put his hand to his ear, and seemed to listen attentively. Then he slowly shook his head, and said, “Would you be kind enough to speak a little louder, sir?”
“The boy is deaf, after all,” said the driver to himself. “IS THIS THE ROAD TO SPARTA?”
“Yes, sir, this is Wrenville,” said Ben, politely.
“Plague take it! he don't hear me yet. IS THIS THE ROAD TO SPARTA?”
“Just a little louder, if you please,” said Ben, keeping his hand to his ear, and appearing anxious to hear.
“Deaf as a post!” muttered the driver. “I couldn't scream any louder, if I should try. Go along.”
“Poor man! I hope he hasn't injured his voice,” thought Ben, his eyes dancing with fun. “By gracious!” he continued a moment later, bursting into a laugh, “if he isn't going to ask the way of old Tom Haven. He's as deaf as I pretended to be.”
The driver had reined up again, and inquired the way to Sparta.
“What did you say?” said the old man, putting his hand to his ear. “I'm rather hard of hearing.”
The traveller repeated his question in a louder voice.
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