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The Wrong Box-Part22_ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON(1850-1894)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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then really it seems as if it would be all right. Mr Bloomfield



is so respectable, you know, and such a leading character, it

would be quite impossible even to fancy that he could be mixed up



with it.'

'This young lady has strong common sense,' said the Squirradical.



'O, I don't think I'm at all a fool,' said Julia, with

conviction.



'But what if neither of them come?' asked Gideon; 'what shall I

do then?'



'Why then,' said she, 'you had better go down to the village

after dark; and I can go with you, and then I am sure you could



never be suspected; and even if you were, I could tell them it

was altogether a mistake.'



'I will not permit that--I will not suffer Miss Hazeltine to go,'

cried Mr Bloomfield.



'Why?' asked Julia.

Mr Bloomfield had not the least desire to tell her why, for it



was simply a craven fear of being drawn himself into the

imbroglio; but with the usual tactics of a man who is ashamed of



himself, he took the high hand. 'God forbid, my dear Miss

Hazeltine, that I should dictate to a lady on the question of



propriety--' he began.

'O, is that all?' interrupted Julia. 'Then we must go all three.'



'Caught!' thought the Squirradical.

CHAPTER XII. Positively the Last Appearance of the Broadwood



Grand

England is supposed to be unmusical; but without dwelling on the



patronage extended to the organ-grinder, without seeking to found

any argument on the prevalence of the jew's trump, there is



surely one instrument that may be said to be national in the

fullest acceptance of the word. The herdboy in the broom, already



musical in the days of Father Chaucer, startles (and perhaps

pains) the lark with this exiguous pipe; and in the hands of the



skilled bricklayer,

'The thing becomes a trumpet, whence he blows'



(as a general rule) either 'The British Grenadiers' or 'Cherry

Ripe'. The latter air is indeed the shibboleth and diploma piece



of the penny whistler" target="_blank" title="n.吹口哨的人">whistler; I hazard a guess it was originally

composed for this instrument. It is singular enough that a man



should be able to gain a livelihood, or even to tide over a

period of unemployment, by the display of his proficiency upon



the penny whistle; still more so, that the professional should

almost invariablyconfine himself to 'Cherry Ripe'. But indeed,



singularities surround the subject, thick like blackberries. Why,

for instance, should the pipe be called a penny whistle? I think



no one ever bought it for a penny. Why should the alternative

name be tin whistle? I am grossly deceived if it be made of tin.



Lastly, in what deaf catacomb, in what earless desert, does the

beginner pass the excruciating interval of his apprenticeship? We



have all heard people learning the piano, the fiddle, and the

cornet; but the young of the penny whistler" target="_blank" title="n.吹口哨的人">whistler (like that of the



salmon) is occult from observation; he is never heard until

proficient; and providence (perhaps alarmed by the works of Mr



Mallock) defends human hearing from his first attempts upon the

upper octave.



A really noteworthy thing was taking place in a green lane, not

far from Padwick. On the bench of a carrier's cart there sat a



tow-headed, lanky, modest-looking youth; the reins were on his

lap; the whip lay behind him in the interior of the cart; the



horse proceeded without guidance or encouragement; the carrier

(or the carrier's man), rapt into a higher sphere than that of



his daily occupations, his looks dwelling on the skies, devoted

himself wholly to a brand-new D penny whistle, whence he



diffidently endeavoured to elicit that pleasingmelody 'The

Ploughboy'. To any observant person who should have chanced to



saunter in that lane, the hour would have been thrilling. 'Here

at last,' he would have said, 'is the beginner.'



The tow-headed youth (whose name was Harker) had just encored

himself for the nineteenth time, when he was struck into the



extreme of confusion by the discovery that he was not alone.

'There you have it!' cried a manly voice from the side of the



road.

'That's as good as I want to hear. Perhaps a leetle oilier in the



run,' the voice suggested, with meditative gusto. 'Give it us




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