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

stirrings of the great desire was no other than Ann Pornick, the head of whose doll he and Sid had broken long ago, and rejoiced over long ago, in the days when he had yet to learn the meaning of a heart.

Negotiations were already on foot to make Kipps into a draper before he discovered the lights that lurked in Ann Pornick’s eyes. School was over, absolutely over, and it was chiefly present to him that he was never to go to school again. It was high summer. The “breaking up” of school had been hilarious; and the excellent maxim, “Last Day’s Pay Day,” had been observed by him with a scrupulous attention to his honour. He had punched the heads of all his enemies, wrung wrists and kicked shins; he had distributed all his unfinished copybooks, all his school books, his collection of marbles and his mortarboard cap among such as loved him; and he had secretly written in obscure pages of their books, “remember Art Kipps.” He had also split the anaemic Woodrow’s cane, carved his own name deeply in several places about the premises, and broken the scullery window. He had told everybody so often that he was to learn to be a sea captain that he had come almost to believe the thing himself. And now he was home, and school was at an end for him for evermore.

He was up before six on the day of his return, and out in the hot sunlight of the yard. He set himself to whistle a peculiarly penetrating arrangement of three notes supposed by the boys of the Hastings Academy and himself and Sid Pornick, for no earthly reason whatever, to be the original Huron war-cry. As he did this he feigned not to be doing it, because of the hatred between his uncle and the Pornicks, but to be examining with respect and admiration a new wing of the dustbin recently erected by his uncle⁠—a pretence that would not have deceived a nestling tomtit.

Presently there came a familiar echo from the Pornick hunting-ground. Then Kipps began to sing, “Ar pars eight tra-la, in the lane be’ind the church.” To which an unseen person answered, “Ar pars eight it is, in the lane be’ind the church.” The “tra-la” was considered to render this sentence incomprehensible to the uninitiated. In order to conceal their operations still more securely, both parties to this duet then gave vent to a vocalisation of the Huron war-cry again, and after a lingering repetition of the last and shrillest note, dispersed severally, as became boys in the enjoyment of holidays, to light the house fires for the day.

Half-past eight found Kipps sitting on the sunlit gate at the top of the long lane that runs towards the sea, clashing his boots in a slow rhythm, and whistling with great violence all that he knew of an excruciatingly pathetic air. There appeared along by the churchyard wall a girl in a short frock, brown-haired, quick-coloured, and with dark blue eyes. She had grown so that she was a little taller than Kipps, and her colour had improved. He scarcely remembered her, so changed was she since last holidays⁠—if indeed he had seen her last holidays, a thing he could not clearly remember. Some vague emotion arose at the sight of her. He stopped whistling and regarded her, oddly tongue-tied.

“He can’t come,” said Ann, advancing boldly. “Not yet.”

“What⁠—not Sid?”

“No. Father’s made him dust all his boxes again.”

“What for?”

“I dunno. Father’s in a stew ’smorning.”

“Oh!”

Pause. Kipps looked at her, and then was unable to look at her again. She regarded him with interest. “You left school?” she remarked after a pause.

“Yes.”

“So’s Sid.”

The conversation languished. Ann put her hands on the top of the gate, and began a stationary hopping, a sort of ineffectual gymnastic experiment.

“Can you run?” she said presently.

“Run you any day,” said Kipps.

“Gimme a start?”

“Where for?” said Kipps.

Ann considered, and indicated a tree. She walked towards it, and turned. “Gimme to here?” she called.

Kipps, standing now and touching the gate, smiled to express conscious superiority. “Further!” he said.

“Here?”

“Bit more!” said Kipps, and then, repenting of his magnanimity, said “Orf!” suddenly, and so recovered his lost concession.

They arrived abreast at the tree, flushed and out of breath.

“Tie!” said Ann, throwing her hair back from her face with her hand.

“I won,” panted Kipps.

They disputed firmly but quite politely.

“Run it again, then,” said Kipps. “I don’t mind.”

They returned towards the gate.

“You don’t run bad,” said Kipps, temperately expressing sincere admiration. “I’m pretty good, you know.”

Ann sent her hair back by an expert toss of the head. “You give me a start,” she allowed.

They became aware of Sid approaching them.

“You better look out, young Ann,” said Sid, with that irreverent want of sympathy usual in brothers. “You been out nearly ’arf-hour. Nothing ain’t been done upstairs. Father said he didn’t know where you was, but when he did he’d warm y’r young ear.”

Ann prepared to go.

“How about that race?” asked Kipps.

“Lor!” cried Sid, quite shocked. “You ain’t been racing her!”

Ann swung herself round the end of the gate with her eyes on Kipps, and then turned away suddenly and ran off down the lane.

Kipps’ eyes tried to go after her, and came back to Sid’s.

“I give her a lot of start,” said Kipps apologetically. “It wasn’t a proper race.” And so the subject was dismissed. But Kipps was distrait for some seconds, perhaps, and the mischief had begun in him.

They proceeded to the question of how two accomplished Hurons might most satisfactorily spend the morning. Manifestly their line lay straight along the lane to the sea.

“There’s a new wreck,” said Sid, “and my!⁠—don’t it smell just!”

“Smell?”

“Fair make you sick. It’s rotten wheat.”

They fell to talking of wrecks, and so came to ironclads and wars and suchlike manly matters.

Halfway to the wreck Kipps made a casual irrelevant remark. “Your sister ain’t a bad sort,” he said offhandedly.

“I clout her a lot,” said Sidney modestly, and after a pause the talk