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. The Splendid Spur<br />Being Memoirs of the Adventures of Mr. John Marvel, a Servant of His Late Maj by Arthur Quiller-Couch (the giving tree read aloud .txt) 📖
- Author: Arthur Quiller-Couch
Book online «The Splendid Spur<br />Being Memoirs of the Adventures of Mr. John Marvel, a Servant of His Late Maj by Arthur Quiller-Couch (the giving tree read aloud .txt) 📖». Author Arthur Quiller-Couch
“What's our direction?” panted I, catching Delia's hand to help her along.
“To the left now—for the river.”
We struck into a narrow side street; and with that heard a watchman bawl—-
“Past nine o' the night, an' a—!”
The shock of our collision sent him to finish his say in the gutter.
“Thieves!” he yell'd.
But already we were twenty yards away, and now in a broader street, whereof one side was wholly lin'd with warehouses. And here, to our dismay, we heard shouts behind, and the noise of feet running.
About halfway down the street I spied a gateway standing ajar, and pull'd Delia aside, into a courtyard litter'd with barrels and timbers, and across it to a black empty barn of a place, where a flight of wooden steps glimmer'd, that led to an upper story. We climb'd these stairs at a run.
“Faugh! What a vile smell!”
The loft was pil'd high with great bales of wool, as I found by the touch, and their odor enough to satisfy an army. Nevertheless, I was groping about for a place to hide, when Delia touch'd me by the arm, and pointed.
Looking, I descried in the gloom a tall quadrilateral of purple, not five steps away, with a speck of light shining near the top of it, and three dark streaks running down the middle, whereof one was much thicker than the rest. 'Twas an open doorway; the speck, a star fram'd within it; the broad streak, a ship's mast reaching up; and the lesser ones two ends of a rope, working over a pulley above my head, and used for lowering the bales of wool on shipboard.
Advancing, I stood on the sill and look'd down. On the black water, twenty feet below, lay a three-masted trader, close against the warehouse. My toes stuck out over her deck, almost.
At first glance I could see no sign of life on board: but presently was aware of a dark figure leaning over the bulwarks, near the bows. He was quite motionless. His back was toward us, blotted against the black shadow; and the man engag'd only, it seem'd, in watching the bright splash of light flung by the ship's lantern on the water beneath him.
I resolv'd to throw myself on the mercy of this silent figure; and put out a hand to test the rope. One end of it was fix'd to a bale of wool that lay, as it had been lower'd, on the deck. Flinging myself on the other, I found it sink gently from the pulley, as the weight below moved slowly upward: and sinking with it, I held on till my feet touch'd the deck.
Still the figure in the bows was motionless.
I paid out my end of the rope softly, lowering back the bale of wool: and, as soon as it rested again on deck, signalled to Delia to let herself down.
She did so. As she alighted, and stood beside me, our hands bungled. The rope slipp'd up quickly, letting down the bale with a run.
We caught at the rope, and stopp'd it just in time: but the pulley above creak'd vociferously. I turn'd my head.
The man in the bows had not mov'd.
CHAPTER X. — CAPTAIN POTTERY AND CAPTAIN SETTLE.
“Now either I am mad or dreaming,” thought I: for that the fellow had not heard our noise was to me starkly incredible. I stepp'd along the deck toward him: not an inch did he budge. I touch'd him on the shoulder.
He fac'd round with a quick start.
“Sir,” said I, quick and low, before he could get a word out—“Sir, we are in your hands. I will be plain. To-night I have broke out of Bristol Keep, and the Colonel's men are after me. Give me up to them, and they hang me to-morrow: give my comrade up, and they persecute her vilely. Now, sir, I know not which side you be, but there's our case in a nutshell.”
The man bent forward, displaying a huge, rounded face, very kindly about the eyes, and set atop of the oddest body in the world: for under a trunk extraordinary broad and strong, straddled & pair of legs that a baby would have disown'd—so thin and stunted were they, and (to make it the queerer) ended in feet the most prodigious you ever saw.
As I said, this man lean'd forward, and shouted into my ear so that I fairly leap'd in the air—
“My name's Pottery—Bill Pottery, cap'n o' the Godsend—an' you can't make me hear, not if you bust yoursel'!”
You may think this put me in a fine quandary.
“I be deaf as nails!” bawl'd he.
'Twas horrible: for the troopers (I thought) if anywhere near, could not miss hearing him. His voice shook the very rigging.
“... An' o' my crew the half ashore gettin' drunk, an' the half below in a very accomplished state o' liquor: so there's no chance for 'ee to speak!”
He paus'd a moment, then roared again—-
“What a pity! 'Cos you make me very curious—that you do!”
Luckily, at this moment, Delia had the sense to put a finger to her lip. The man wheel'd round without another word, led us aft over the blocks, cordage, and all manner of loose gear that encumber'd the deck, to a ladder that, toward the stern, led down into darkness. Here he sign'd to us to follow; and, descending first, threw open a door, letting out a faint stream of light in our faces. 'Twas the captain's cabin, lin'd with cupboards and lockers: and the light came from an oil lamp hanging over a narrow deal table. By this light Captain Billy scrutiniz'd us for an instant: then, from one of his lockers, brought out pen, paper, and ink, and set them on the table before me.
{Illustration: “Master Pottery shaking us both by the hand."}
I caught up the pen, dipp'd it, and began to write—
“I am John Marvel, a servant of King Charles; and this night am escap'd out of Bristol Castle. If you be—”
Thus far I had written without glancing up, in fear to read the disappointment of my hopes. But now the pen was caught suddenly from my fingers, the paper torn in shreds, and there was Master Pottery shaking us both by the hand, nodding and becking, and smiling the while all over his big red face.
But he ceas'd at last: and
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