George Manville Fenn

Why we were there. The captain of the steamer stopped by where I was watching the flying fish fizz out of the blue-ink-like water, skim along for some distance, and drop in again, often, I believe, to be snapped up by some bigger fish; and he gave me a poke in the shoulder with one finger, so hard, that it hurt. “Yes?” I said, for he stood looking hard in my face, while I looked back harder in his,... more...

Chapter One. How We Got There. “But what are we going for?” If he had not been so much of a gentleman, I should have said that the half-closing of his left eye and its rapid reopening had been a wink; as it was, we will say it was not. The next moment, he had thrown himself back in his chair, smiled, and said, quietly. “Not yet, captain—not yet. I’ll tell you by-and-by. At present it is my... more...

Chapter One. “You’re another.” “So are you.” “I am, am I?” “Yes; a cocky overbearing bully. You want your comb cut, Gil Vincent.” “Cut it, then, you miserable humbug. Take that.” Crack—thud! My fist went home on Morton’s cheek, and almost simultaneously his flew out and struck me in the ribs. Crack—thud! Morton’s return sounding like an echo of my blow. There was a buzz of... more...

A break-down. “It’s a lie! I don’t and I won’t believe it.” The speaker half whispered that, and then he shouted, “Do you hear?” There was a pause, and then from the face of a huge white snow-cliff there came back the word “hear.” “Well done, echo!” cried the speaker. “Echo,” came back. “Thankye; that’s quite cheering; anything’s better than that horrible silence. What... more...

How Spring was Coming. “Hallo, old Yellowbill! what’s brought you out so early?” said a fine fat thrush, one bright spring morning, stopping for a moment to look at his companion, and leaving the great broken-shelled snail he had rooted out of the ivy bush curling about upon the gravel path. “Hallo, old Yellowbill! what’s brought you out so early?” “What’s that to you, old... more...

A High Family. “Con-found those organs!” said the Earl of Barmouth. “And frustrate their grinders,” cried Viscount Diphoos. “They are such a nuisance, my boy.” “True, oh sire,” replied the viscount, who had the heels of his patent leather shoes on the library chimney-piece of the town mansion in Portland Place. He had reached that spot with difficulty, and was smoking a cigar, to calm... more...

“Can you use a Sword?” “Yes! What is it?” “Hist, boy! Jump up and dress.” “Oh, it’s you, father!” said the newly aroused sleeper, slipping out of bed—or, rather, off his bed, for the heat of an Eastern China night had made him dispense with bedclothes. He made a frantic dash at his trousers, feeling confused and strange in the darkness, and hardly... more...

“Two bad Boys”—Sergeant Ripsy. “Oh, bother!” The utterer of these two impatient words threw down a sheet of notepaper from which he had been reading, carefully smoothed out the folds to make it flat, and then, balancing it upon one finger as he sat back in a cane chair with his heels upon the table, gave the paper a flip with his nail and sent it skimming out of the window of his military... more...

Bass for Breakfast. “Have some more bass, Gwyn?” “Please, father.” “You should not speak with your mouth full, my dear,” said Mrs Pendarve, quietly. “No, mother; but I didn’t like to keep father waiting.” “And between the two stools you came to the ground, eh?” said Colonel Pendarve, smiling. “Never mind; hold your plate. Lucky for us, my dear, that we have only one boy. This... more...

Chapter One. On the March. Trrt—trrt—trrt. Just that little sound, as the sticks flirted with the drumheads to keep the men in step; for Her Majesty’s 404th Fusiliers were marching “easy.” So it was called; and it meant with the men smoking, and carrying their rifles as they pleased—shouldered, at the trail, slung muzzle up or muzzle down. But, all the same, it was a miserable fiction to... more...