酷兔英语
    当前位置:
  1. 首页
  2. 文章
  3. 娱乐英语
  4. 原版小说
  5. 正文

The Wrong Box-Part24_ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON(1850-1894)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

0 收藏 0 分享 0 赞

章节正文
文章总共2页
procrastinate the crash; and, when it came, when prying eyes



began to be applied to every joint of his behaviour, two

questions could not fail to be addressed, sooner or later, to a



speechless and perspiring insolvent. Where is Mr Joseph Finsbury?

and how about your visit to the bank? Questions, how easy to



put!--ye gods, how impossible to answer! The man to whom they

should be addressed went certainly to gaol, and--eh! what was



this?--possibly to the gallows. Morris was trying to shave when

this idea struck him, and he laid the razor down. Here (in



Michael's words) was the total disappearance of a valuable uncle;

here was a time of inexplicable conduct on the part of a nephew



who had been in bad blood with the old man any time these seven

years; what a chance for a judicial blunder! 'But no,' thought



Morris, 'they cannot, they dare not, make it murder. Not that.

But honestly, and speaking as a man to a man, I don't see any



other crime in the calendar (except arson) that I don't seem

somehow to have committed. And yet I'm a perfectlyrespectable



man, and wished nothing but my due. Law is a pretty business.'

With this conclusionfirmly seated in his mind, Morris Finsbury



descended to the hall of the house in John Street, still

half-shaven. There was a letter in the box; he knew the



handwriting: John at last!

'Well, I think I might have been spared this,' he said bitterly,



and tore it open.

Dear Morris [it ran], what the dickens do you mean by it? I'm in



an awful hole down here; I have to go on tick, and the parties on

the spot don't cotton to the idea; they couldn't, because it is



so plain I'm in a stait of Destitution. I've got no bedclothes,

think of that, I must have coins, the hole thing's a Mockry, I



wont stand it, nobody would. I would have come away before, only

I have no money for the railway fare. Don't be a lunatic, Morris,



you don't seem to understand my dredful situation. I have to get

the stamp on tick. A fact.--Ever your affte. Brother,



J. FINSBURY

'Can't even spell!' Morris reflected, as he crammed the letter in



his pocket, and left the house. 'What can I do for him? I have to

go to the expense of a barber, I'm so shattered! How can I send



anybody coins? It's hard lines, I daresay; but does he think I'm

living on hot muffins? One comfort,' was his grim reflection, 'he



can't cut and run--he's got to stay; he's as helpless as the

dead.' And then he broke forth again: 'Complains, does he? and



he's never even heard of Bent Pitman! If he had what I have on my

mind, he might complain with a good grace.'



But these were not honest arguments, or not wholly honest; there

was a struggle in the mind of Morris; he could not disguise from



himself that his brother John was miserablysituated at

Browndean, without news, without money, without bedclothes,



without society or any entertainment; and by the time he had been

shaved and picked a hasty breakfast at a coffee tavern, Morris



had arrived at a compromise.

'Poor Johnny,' he said to himself, 'he's in an awful box! I can't



send him coins, but I'll tell you what I'll do: I'll send him the

Pink Un--it'll cheer John up; and besides, it'll do his credit



good getting anything by post.'

Accordingly, on his way to the leather business, whither he



proceeded (according to his thrifty habit) on foot, Morris

purchased and dispatched a single copy of that enlivening



periodical, to which (in a sudden pang of remorse) he added at

random the Athenaeum, the Revivalist, and the Penny Pictorial



Weekly. So there was John set up with literature, and Morris had

laid balm upon his conscience.



As if to reward him, he was received in his place of business

with good news. Orders were pouring in; there was a run on some



of the back stock, and the figure had gone up. Even the manager

appeared elated. As for Morris, who had almost forgotten the



meaning of good news, he longed to sob like a little child; he

could have caught the manager (a pallid man with startled



eyebrows) to his bosom; he could have found it in his generosity

to give a cheque (for a small sum) to every clerk in the



counting-house. As he sat and opened his letters a chorus of airy

vocalists sang in his brain, to most exquisite music, 'This whole



concern may be profitable yet, profitable yet, profitable yet.'

To him, in this sunny moment of relief, enter a Mr Rodgerson, a



creditor, but not one who was expected to be pressing, for his




文章总共2页
文章标签:名著  

章节正文
Copyright © 2023 Qeto All rights reserved.
商务合作 | 联系我们 | 关于我们 | 版权声明 | 隐私条款 | 如果智培

京ICP备05059198号-1 京公网安备 11011202003401号