author - "Fergus Hume"
was more astonished than I when it passed beyond the narrowcircle for which it had originally been intended.
My mind made up on this point, I enquired of a leading Melbournebookseller what style of book he sold most of He replied that thedetective stories of Gaboriau had a large sale; and as, at this time, Ihad never even heard of this author, I bought all his works--eleven orthereabouts--and read them carefully. The style of these storiesattracted me, and I determined to write a book of the same class;containing a mystery, a murder, and a description of low life inMelbourne. This was the origin of the "Cab." The central idea i.e. themurder in a cab--came to me while driving at a late hour to St. Kilda,a suburb of Melbourne; but it took some time and much thought to workit out to a logical conclusion. I was two months sketching outthe skeleton of the novel, but even so, when I had written it, theresult proved unsatisfactory, for I found I had not sufficiently wellconcealed the mystery upon wh
up his breakfast with her own fair hands, happy for the day if her admired lodger conversed with her for a few moments before reading the morning paper. Then Miss Greeb would retire to her own sitting-room and indulge in day dreams which she well knew would never be realised. The romances she wove herself were even more marvellous than those she read in her favourite penny novelettes; but, unlike the printed tales, her romance never culminated in marriage. Poor brainless, silly, pitiful Miss Greeb; she would have made a good wife and a fond mother, but by some irony of fate she was destined to be neither; and the comedy of her husband-hunting youth was now changing into the lonely tragedy of disappointed spinsterhood. She was one of the world's unknown martyrs, and her fate merits tears rather than laughter.
On the morning after his meeting with Berwin, the young barrister sat at breakfast, with Miss Greeb in anxious attendance. Having poured out his tea, and handed him his paper, and ascertained that
too, my lady, afore Aaron, who now lies with the worms, laid me out with a flat-iron. Men's fit for jails only, as I allays says."
"A nice opinion you have of our sex," remarked Archie dryly.
"I have, sir. I could tell you things as would make your head waggle with horror on there shoulders of yours."
"What about your son Sidney? Is he also wicked?"
"He would be if he had the strength, which he hasn't," exclaimed the widow with uncomplimentary fervor. "He's Aaron's son, and Aaron hadn't much to learn from them as is where he's gone too," and she looked downward significantly.
"Sidney is a decent young fellow," said Lucy sharply. "How dare you miscall your own flesh and blood, Widow Anne? My father thinks a great deal of Sidney, else he would not have sent him to Malta. Do try and be cheerful, there's a good soul. Sidney will tell you plenty to make you laugh, when he comes home."
"If he ever does come home," sighed the old woman.
"What do you mean by that?"
was more astonished than I when it passed beyond the narrowcircle for which it had originally been intended.
My mind made up on this point, I enquired of a leading Melbournebookseller what style of book he sold most of He replied that thedetective stories of Gaboriau had a large sale; and as, at this time, Ihad never even heard of this author, I bought all his works--eleven orthereabouts--and read them carefully. The style of these storiesattracted me, and I determined to write a book of the same class;containing a mystery, a murder, and a description of low life inMelbourne. This was the origin of the "Cab." The central idea i.e. themurder in a cab--came to me while driving at a late hour to St. Kilda,a suburb of Melbourne; but it took some time and much thought to workit out to a logical conclusion. I was two months sketching outthe skeleton of the novel, but even so, when I had written it, theresult proved unsatisfactory, for I found I had not sufficiently wellconcealed the mystery upon wh
up his breakfast with her own fair hands, happy for the day if her admired lodger conversed with her for a few moments before reading the morning paper. Then Miss Greeb would retire to her own sitting-room and indulge in day dreams which she well knew would never be realised. The romances she wove herself were even more marvellous than those she read in her favourite penny novelettes; but, unlike the printed tales, her romance never culminated in marriage. Poor brainless, silly, pitiful Miss Greeb; she would have made a good wife and a fond mother, but by some irony of fate she was destined to be neither; and the comedy of her husband-hunting youth was now changing into the lonely tragedy of disappointed spinsterhood. She was one of the world's unknown martyrs, and her fate merits tears rather than laughter.
On the morning after his meeting with Berwin, the young barrister sat at breakfast, with Miss Greeb in anxious attendance. Having poured out his tea, and handed him his paper, and ascertained that
too, my lady, afore Aaron, who now lies with the worms, laid me out with a flat-iron. Men's fit for jails only, as I allays says."
"A nice opinion you have of our sex," remarked Archie dryly.
"I have, sir. I could tell you things as would make your head waggle with horror on there shoulders of yours."
"What about your son Sidney? Is he also wicked?"
"He would be if he had the strength, which he hasn't," exclaimed the widow with uncomplimentary fervor. "He's Aaron's son, and Aaron hadn't much to learn from them as is where he's gone too," and she looked downward significantly.
"Sidney is a decent young fellow," said Lucy sharply. "How dare you miscall your own flesh and blood, Widow Anne? My father thinks a great deal of Sidney, else he would not have sent him to Malta. Do try and be cheerful, there's a good soul. Sidney will tell you plenty to make you laugh, when he comes home."
"If he ever does come home," sighed the old woman.
"What do you mean by that?"