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Private Selby - ebook
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Private Selby - ebook
As a prophecy of modern warfare, this book, written before the Great War, is distinctly remarkable, as well as having the genuine Edgar Wallace sense of thrilling narrative. The centre of the plot is the invasion of Britain in 1909. It could be a crime story, as it opens in the mean streets of working class Deptford in the opening years of the 20th century, and includes criminals petty and not so petty. It is also a war story, and includes a balloon air raid over London; and finally the love story of Private Selby and his dream girl, the Brown Lady, also known as ‘O.C’. An interesting small novel which changes rather abruptly from a crime novel to a military drama and finally an early alternative history-meller describing a conflict.
| Kategoria: | Classic Literature |
| Język: | Angielski |
| Zabezpieczenie: |
Watermark
|
| ISBN: | 978-83-8136-289-4 |
| Rozmiar pliku: | 2,4 MB |
FRAGMENT KSIĄŻKI
Contents
INTRODUCTION
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER XXVII
CHAPTER XXVIII
CHAPTER XXIX
CHAPTER XXX
CHAPTER XXXI
CHAPTER XXXII
CHAPTER XXXIII
CHAPTER XXXIV
CHAPTER XXXV
CHAPTER THE LASTINTRODUCTION
SITTING down calmly to write the story of Dick Selby and all that came to him because of the Brown Lady, his “O.C.,” I am terribly tempted to skip what may seem to be the unimportant periods of his life, and go straight to that wonder time of his. But were I to plunge into the heart of my story, and were I to begin my narrative with such a phrase as “This is the story of Selby, who from being a third-rate clerk, became the–” you might well call me to task for the strain I put upon credulity.
If, reading this story, you happen upon improbable combinations of circumstances, unlikely situations, events that stand on the outward rim of your belief, I would ask you to remember that Dick Selby had up to this time lived a most ordinary life. If the Brown Lady, Elise, had been your conventional prune and prism miss, this story would not have been written at all, for I could not bring myself to the recording of such thin romance as a conventional suburban courtship would afford.
I feel, in a degree, like a conjurer who, with pardonable ostentation, shows both sides of the handkerchief to his audience and hands the egg round for their inspection, to prove that all his paraphernalia is ordinary.
My hero, then, was an ordinary young man of the lower middle classes. He had but the dim outlines of an education, and if the Brown Lady had never existed, Dick Selby would have developed into a respectable obscure member of the community. He would have rented a little villa, furnished it on the hire-purchase system, gone to church on Sunday, and brought up, under considerable financial stress, a large family. As for his wife, I can imagine her–pert, with a ready and boisterous laugh, a little gauche, and a reader of Miss Corelli’s admirable novels.
White Magic there is, wrought by pixies, fairies, elves, and woodland brownies; Black Magic, nearly associated with imps, hobgoblins, witches, and the dark legions of devilry; but it was Brown Magic that took Dick Selby, with his doubts, his unrest, his fume against circumstance, and made him what he eventually was, raising him to a position far higher than his merits alone could have raised him, lifting him so high, indeed, that there was a moment when the world halted momentarily to see what this lodger boy from Friendly Street would do.
This story is not intended to go forth as one founded upon fact: more extraordinary things have happened and will happen than are chronicled here. But if in my desire to show the British soldier at some advantage, I wander into the realms of improbability, it may be counted to my credit that, although I have placed my soldier here in remarkable environments, I have been careful to avoid exaggeration in describing the life of the soldier himself.CHAPTER I
PROBABLY “Old Cull” Grain would not regard himself as an instrument of a divine Providence. Nor probably would anyone else so regard him. His face was too red, his voice was too big, he kept a greengrocer’s shop in the Deptford High Street, and, moreover, backed horses.
For it is well known by the very best authorities that the messengers and wonder-workers of Providence are of a meek and innocent disposition. Children who reconcile their estranged parents–brown-eyed maidens who bring together tragic lovers–even policemen are to be respected in this capacity; but certainly not red-faced greengrocers and sporting greengrocers to boot.
Dick Selby, passing along High Street, Deptford, one Saturday night in June, came face to face with Old Cull. Times were hard with this boy with the clean-cut face and the strong straight mouth and he was in no mood for Old Cull’s pleasantries.
It wasn’t the fact that he had lost his job–there was another waiting, he knew that–but somewhere down in the unexplored caverns of his mind there was fierce, vague discontent, an indescribable soul nausea, an intangible and irritating restlessness that he could not define or classify.
Old Cull stopped him, standing unsteadily on the edge of the pavement.
The street was alive with people on this summer evening, for this was the marketing hour. The cheap butcher hoarsely and extravagantly extolled his carrion, addressing his customers with gross familiarity, and from the fair-ground just a little way along the street came fitfully the blare of a steam organ.
This was life and gaiety and experience, and the world of Deptford went shuffling by in the thin drizzle of rain, open-mouthed, wide-eyed, soaked in the sense of enjoyment.
“Dick,” said Old Cull gravely, “gorrer good thing.”
“Oh,” said Dick absently.
“Did I tell you ‘Clarabelle’?” demanded Cull aggressively.
“Did you? Yes, I think you did, Cull,” said Dick.
“Didn’t I put you on to ‘The Wash’ when it rolled home at sevens?”
The boy nodded.
“This,” was a long recital. It entailed much explanation–husky, confidential whispering, and holding on to Dick’s shoulder. Worse, it meant Old Cull’s red face thrust into his, and the scent of his vinous breath.
It was about “The Snooker” running at Ascot in the two o’clock race on Tuesday. Old Cull had the tip straight from a publican who knew a man who knew a trainer. This was the straightest, most unbeatable gem that had ever scintillated in the summer sun, the most precious stable secret that tout had ever surprised, or publican (for a consideration) acquired.
“And mark me, Dicky,” said Old Cull solemnly, “this is a thing to put your shirt on, to pawn your watch on, to scrape an’ strive to get every penny you can borrow to put on–it’s a blanky snip!”
In making this emphatic pronouncement, Cull Grain played the part of Providence designed for him, and Dick left him and continued his walk slowly and thoughtfully.
A way out?
His heart leapt at the thought.
A way out of Deptford and the humdrum monotony of his work? From Laddo, and the Gills and the Makins, from the Tanner’s Hill lot, and the Creek Road lot!
It was ridiculous, of course, for a cheap clerk to have ambitions. He was not even a clerk: he checked time for Morlands, the contractors; he checked the weight of granite-laden carts, and tested the size of Aberdeen “pitchers.” A board school had turned him loose on to the world with a half-digested education. An island was a piece of land surrounded by water; he knew that. “Was” was a verb, past tense of the verb “to be,” agreeing with its noun in number and person; he knew that. And similar aids to an industrial life were hotch-potched in his mind–a disconnected array of facts.
His father he never remembered, but he had a distinct recollection of his mother’s funeral. He had lived with an aunt till he was able to earn his living, and now he had a tiny room in Friendly Street, with all a lodger’s privileges.
He went over his position as he continued his walk. One half of his brain recounted the situation, whilst the other half speculated upon Old Cull’s tip.
Ahead of him, he told himself, was at best a clerkship, a small house in the suburbs. And a wife.
He flushed at the last thought.
The Brown Lady was, of course, a dream lady. A beautiful and fragrant dream that it was impious to associate with marriage, even were such an end possible. The other girl would be of his own class, loud of speech, florid as to dress, with the twang of the street, and the humour and commonplace cant of the gutter. He shrugged his shoulders. The reality must wait: for the moment he had the Brown Lady–nothing could rob him of this fairy vision. Clerk or time-checker, he could still stand on the other side of the street and watch her trip down to the brougham that stood at her door; he could still wait in the shadows, listening to her fresh voice and her rippling little laugh. It was because of her dress that he called her the Brown Lady. She always wore brown. The first time he had ever seen her she was quite a little girl…
“Hullo, Dick!”
This is a free sample. Please purchase full version of the book to continue.
INTRODUCTION
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER XXVII
CHAPTER XXVIII
CHAPTER XXIX
CHAPTER XXX
CHAPTER XXXI
CHAPTER XXXII
CHAPTER XXXIII
CHAPTER XXXIV
CHAPTER XXXV
CHAPTER THE LASTINTRODUCTION
SITTING down calmly to write the story of Dick Selby and all that came to him because of the Brown Lady, his “O.C.,” I am terribly tempted to skip what may seem to be the unimportant periods of his life, and go straight to that wonder time of his. But were I to plunge into the heart of my story, and were I to begin my narrative with such a phrase as “This is the story of Selby, who from being a third-rate clerk, became the–” you might well call me to task for the strain I put upon credulity.
If, reading this story, you happen upon improbable combinations of circumstances, unlikely situations, events that stand on the outward rim of your belief, I would ask you to remember that Dick Selby had up to this time lived a most ordinary life. If the Brown Lady, Elise, had been your conventional prune and prism miss, this story would not have been written at all, for I could not bring myself to the recording of such thin romance as a conventional suburban courtship would afford.
I feel, in a degree, like a conjurer who, with pardonable ostentation, shows both sides of the handkerchief to his audience and hands the egg round for their inspection, to prove that all his paraphernalia is ordinary.
My hero, then, was an ordinary young man of the lower middle classes. He had but the dim outlines of an education, and if the Brown Lady had never existed, Dick Selby would have developed into a respectable obscure member of the community. He would have rented a little villa, furnished it on the hire-purchase system, gone to church on Sunday, and brought up, under considerable financial stress, a large family. As for his wife, I can imagine her–pert, with a ready and boisterous laugh, a little gauche, and a reader of Miss Corelli’s admirable novels.
White Magic there is, wrought by pixies, fairies, elves, and woodland brownies; Black Magic, nearly associated with imps, hobgoblins, witches, and the dark legions of devilry; but it was Brown Magic that took Dick Selby, with his doubts, his unrest, his fume against circumstance, and made him what he eventually was, raising him to a position far higher than his merits alone could have raised him, lifting him so high, indeed, that there was a moment when the world halted momentarily to see what this lodger boy from Friendly Street would do.
This story is not intended to go forth as one founded upon fact: more extraordinary things have happened and will happen than are chronicled here. But if in my desire to show the British soldier at some advantage, I wander into the realms of improbability, it may be counted to my credit that, although I have placed my soldier here in remarkable environments, I have been careful to avoid exaggeration in describing the life of the soldier himself.CHAPTER I
PROBABLY “Old Cull” Grain would not regard himself as an instrument of a divine Providence. Nor probably would anyone else so regard him. His face was too red, his voice was too big, he kept a greengrocer’s shop in the Deptford High Street, and, moreover, backed horses.
For it is well known by the very best authorities that the messengers and wonder-workers of Providence are of a meek and innocent disposition. Children who reconcile their estranged parents–brown-eyed maidens who bring together tragic lovers–even policemen are to be respected in this capacity; but certainly not red-faced greengrocers and sporting greengrocers to boot.
Dick Selby, passing along High Street, Deptford, one Saturday night in June, came face to face with Old Cull. Times were hard with this boy with the clean-cut face and the strong straight mouth and he was in no mood for Old Cull’s pleasantries.
It wasn’t the fact that he had lost his job–there was another waiting, he knew that–but somewhere down in the unexplored caverns of his mind there was fierce, vague discontent, an indescribable soul nausea, an intangible and irritating restlessness that he could not define or classify.
Old Cull stopped him, standing unsteadily on the edge of the pavement.
The street was alive with people on this summer evening, for this was the marketing hour. The cheap butcher hoarsely and extravagantly extolled his carrion, addressing his customers with gross familiarity, and from the fair-ground just a little way along the street came fitfully the blare of a steam organ.
This was life and gaiety and experience, and the world of Deptford went shuffling by in the thin drizzle of rain, open-mouthed, wide-eyed, soaked in the sense of enjoyment.
“Dick,” said Old Cull gravely, “gorrer good thing.”
“Oh,” said Dick absently.
“Did I tell you ‘Clarabelle’?” demanded Cull aggressively.
“Did you? Yes, I think you did, Cull,” said Dick.
“Didn’t I put you on to ‘The Wash’ when it rolled home at sevens?”
The boy nodded.
“This,” was a long recital. It entailed much explanation–husky, confidential whispering, and holding on to Dick’s shoulder. Worse, it meant Old Cull’s red face thrust into his, and the scent of his vinous breath.
It was about “The Snooker” running at Ascot in the two o’clock race on Tuesday. Old Cull had the tip straight from a publican who knew a man who knew a trainer. This was the straightest, most unbeatable gem that had ever scintillated in the summer sun, the most precious stable secret that tout had ever surprised, or publican (for a consideration) acquired.
“And mark me, Dicky,” said Old Cull solemnly, “this is a thing to put your shirt on, to pawn your watch on, to scrape an’ strive to get every penny you can borrow to put on–it’s a blanky snip!”
In making this emphatic pronouncement, Cull Grain played the part of Providence designed for him, and Dick left him and continued his walk slowly and thoughtfully.
A way out?
His heart leapt at the thought.
A way out of Deptford and the humdrum monotony of his work? From Laddo, and the Gills and the Makins, from the Tanner’s Hill lot, and the Creek Road lot!
It was ridiculous, of course, for a cheap clerk to have ambitions. He was not even a clerk: he checked time for Morlands, the contractors; he checked the weight of granite-laden carts, and tested the size of Aberdeen “pitchers.” A board school had turned him loose on to the world with a half-digested education. An island was a piece of land surrounded by water; he knew that. “Was” was a verb, past tense of the verb “to be,” agreeing with its noun in number and person; he knew that. And similar aids to an industrial life were hotch-potched in his mind–a disconnected array of facts.
His father he never remembered, but he had a distinct recollection of his mother’s funeral. He had lived with an aunt till he was able to earn his living, and now he had a tiny room in Friendly Street, with all a lodger’s privileges.
He went over his position as he continued his walk. One half of his brain recounted the situation, whilst the other half speculated upon Old Cull’s tip.
Ahead of him, he told himself, was at best a clerkship, a small house in the suburbs. And a wife.
He flushed at the last thought.
The Brown Lady was, of course, a dream lady. A beautiful and fragrant dream that it was impious to associate with marriage, even were such an end possible. The other girl would be of his own class, loud of speech, florid as to dress, with the twang of the street, and the humour and commonplace cant of the gutter. He shrugged his shoulders. The reality must wait: for the moment he had the Brown Lady–nothing could rob him of this fairy vision. Clerk or time-checker, he could still stand on the other side of the street and watch her trip down to the brougham that stood at her door; he could still wait in the shadows, listening to her fresh voice and her rippling little laugh. It was because of her dress that he called her the Brown Lady. She always wore brown. The first time he had ever seen her she was quite a little girl…
“Hullo, Dick!”
This is a free sample. Please purchase full version of the book to continue.
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