Kipps H. G. Wells (best thriller novels to read .txt) 📖

or rashers or bloater paste or.⁠ ⁠… Also he was going to astonish Miss Walshingham.⁠ ⁠…

Astonish her and astonish her.⁠ ⁠…

He was awakened by a thrush singing in the fresh dawn. The whole room was flooded with warm, golden sunshine. “I say!” said the thrush. “I say! I say! Twelve ’undred a year! Twelve ’Undred a Year. Twelve ’Undred a Year! I say! I say! I say!”

He sat up in bed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes with his knuckles. Then he jumped out of bed and began dressing very eagerly. He did not want to lose any time in beginning the new life.

Book II Mr. Coote, the Chaperon I The New Conditions

There comes a gentlemanly figure into these events and for a space takes a leading part therein, a Good Influence, a refined and amiable figure, Mr. Chester Coote. You must figure him as about to enter our story, walking with a curious rectitude of bearing through the evening dusk towards the Public Library, erect, large-headed⁠—he had a great, big head full of the suggestion of a powerful mind, well under control⁠—with a large, official-looking envelope in his white and knuckly hand. In the other he carries a gold-handled cane. He wears a silken grey jacket suit, buttoned up, and anon he coughs behind the official envelope. He has a prominent nose, slatey grey eyes and a certain heaviness about the mouth. His mouth hangs breathing open, with a slight protrusion of the lower jaw. His straw hat is pulled down a little in front, and he looks each person he passes in the eye, and directly his look is answered looks away.

Thus Mr. Chester Coote, as he was on the evening when he came upon Kipps. He was a local house agent and a most active and gentlemanly person, a conscious gentleman, equally aware of society and the serious side of life. From amateur theatricals of a nice, refined sort to science classes, few things were able to get along without him. He supplied a fine, full bass, a little flat and quavery perhaps, but very abundant, to the St. Stylites’ choir.⁠ ⁠…

He passes on towards the Public Library, lifts the envelope in salutation to a passing curate, smiles and enters.⁠ ⁠…

It was in the Public Library that he came upon Kipps.

By that time Kipps had been rich a week or more, and the change in his circumstances was visible upon his person. He was wearing a new suit of drab flannels, a Panama hat and a red tie for the first time, and he carried a silver-mounted stick with a tortoise shell handle. He felt extraordinarily different, perhaps more different than he really was, from the meek Improver of a week ago. He felt as he felt Dukes must feel, yet at bottom he was still modest. He was leaning on his stick and regarding the indicator with a respect that never palled. He faced round to meet Mr. Coote’s overflowing smile.

“What are you doang hea?” said Mr. Chester Coote.

Kipps was momentarily abashed. “Oh,” he said slowly, and then, “Mooching round a bit.”

That Coote should address him with this easy familiarity was a fresh reminder of his enhanced social position. “Jes’ mooching round,” he said. “I been back in Folkestone free days now. At my ’ouse, you know.”

“Ah!” said Mr. Coote. “I haven’t yet had an opportunity of congratulating you on your good fortune.”

Kipps held out his hand. “It was the cleanest surprise that ever was,” he said. “When Mr. Bean told me of it⁠—you could have knocked me down with a feather.”

“It must mean a tremendous change for you.”

“Oo. Rather. Change. Why, I’m like the chap in the song they sing, I don’t ’ardly know where I are. You know.”

“An extraordinary change,” said Mr. Coote. “I can quite believe it. Are you stopping in Folkestone?”

“For a bit. I got a ’ouse, you know. What my gran’father ’ad. I’m stopping there. His housekeeper was kep’ on. Fancy⁠—being in the same town and everything!”

“Precisely,” said Mr. Coote. “That’s it!” and coughed like a sheep behind four straight fingers.

“Mr. Bean got me to come back to see to things. Else I was out in New Romney, where my Uncle and Aunt live. But it’s a Lark coming back. In a way.⁠ ⁠…”

The conversation hung for a moment.

“Are you getting a book?” asked Coote.

“Well, I ’aven’t got a ticket yet. But I shall get one all right, and have a go in at reading. I’ve often wanted to. Rather. I was just ’aving a look at this Indicator. First-class idea. Tells you all you want to know.”

“It’s simple,” said Coote, and coughed again, keeping his eyes fixed on Kipps. For a moment they hung, evidently disinclined to part. Then Kipps jumped at an idea he had cherished for a day or more⁠—not particularly in relation to Coote, but in relation to anyone.

“You doing anything?” he asked.

“Just called with a papah about the classes.”

“Because⁠—. Would you care to come up and look at my ’ouse and ’ave a smoke and a chat. Eh?” He made indicative back jerks of the head, and was smitten with a horrible doubt whether possibly this invitation might not be some hideous breach of etiquette. Was it, for example, the correct hour? “I’d be awfully glad if you would,” he added.

Mr. Coote begged for a moment while he handed the official-looking envelope to the librarian and then declared himself quite at Kipps’ service. They muddled a moment over precedence at each door they went through and so emerged to the street.

“It feels awful rum to me at first, all this,” said Kipps. “ ’Aving a ’ouse of my own and all that. It’s strange, you know. ’Aving all day. Reely I don’t ’ardly know what to do with my time.

“D’ju smoke?” he said suddenly, proffering a magnificent gold decorated pigskin cigarette case, which he produced from nothing, almost as though it was some sort of trick. Coote hesitated and declined, and then, with great liberality, “Don’t let me hinder you.⁠ ⁠…”

They walked a little way in