Mr. Skelmersdale in Fairyland , livre ebook
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English
Ebooks
2017
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13
pages
English
Ebooks
2017
Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage
Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne En savoir plus
Publié par
Date de parution
10 avril 2017
Nombre de lectures
0
EAN13
9781787242272
Langue
English
H. G. Wells
Mr. Skelmersdale
in Fairyland
Published by Fantastica
This edition first published in 2017
Copyright © 2017 Fantastica
All Rights Reserve
ISBN: 9781787242272
Contents
MR. SKELMERSDALE IN FAIRYLAND
MR. SKELMERSDALE IN FAIRYLAND
“T here’s a man in that shop,” said the Doctor, “who has been in Fairyland.”
“Nonsense!” I said, and stared back at the shop. It was the usual village shop, post-office, telegraph wire on its brow, zinc pans and brushes outside, boots, shirtings, and potted meats in the window. “Tell me about it,” I said, after a pause.
“I don’t know,” said the Doctor. “He’s an ordinary sort of lout-Skelmersdale is his name. But everybody about here believes it like Bible truth.”
I reverted presently to the topic.
“I know nothing about it,” said the Doctor, “and I don’t WANT to know. I attended him for a broken finger-Married and Single cricket match-and that’s when I struck the nonsense. That’s all. But it shows you the sort of stuff I have to deal with, anyhow, eh? Nice to get modern sanitary ideas into a people like this!”
“Very,” I said in a mildly sympathetic tone, and he went on to tell me about that business of the Bonham drain. Things of that kind, I observe, are apt to weigh on the minds of Medical Officers of Health. I was as sympathetic as I knew how, and when he called the Bonham people “asses,” I said they were “thundering asses,” but even that did not allay him.
Afterwards, later in the summer, an urgent desire to seclude myself, while finishing my chapter on Spiritual Pathology-it was really, I believe, stiffer to write than it is to read-took me to Bignor. I lodged at a farmhouse, and presently found myself outside that little general shop again, in search of tobacco. “Skelmersdale,” said I to myself at the sight of it, and went in.
I was served by a short, but shapely, young man, with a fair downy complexion, good, small teeth, blue eyes, and a languid manner. I scrutinised him curiously. Except for a touch of melancholy in his expression, he was nothing out of the common. He was in the shirt-sleeves and tucked-up apron of his trade, and a pencil was thrust behind his inoffensive ear. Athwart his black waistcoat was a gold chain, from which dangled a bent guinea.
“Nothing more to-day, sir?” he inquired. He leant forward over my bill as he spoke.
“Are you Mr. Skelmersdale?” said I.
