Fiction Books

1. Mr Bickersdyke Walks behind the Bowler's Arm Considering what a prominent figure Mr John Bickersdyke was to be in Mike Jackson's life, it was only appropriate that he should make a dramatic entry into it. This he did by walking behind the bowler's arm when Mike had scored ninety-eight, causing him thereby to be clean bowled by a long-hop. It was the last day of the Ilsworth cricket... more...

CANTO I. The Trystyng.One winter night, at half-past nine,Cold, tired, and cross, and muddy,I had come home, too late to dine,And supper, with cigars and wine,Was waiting in the study. There was a strangeness in the room,And Something white and wavyWas standing near me in the gloom— Itook it for the carpet-broomLeft by that careless slavey.   But presently the Thing beganTo shiver and to sneeze:On... more...

Dear Mother: I have concluded to send you my journal, not because I think it contains anything of great interest, but because I know you will take it as an evidence that I have not forgotten my Mother. Nancy and I have been married two years today, and through that time have walked peacefully along the path of life together, a path on which little Alice now presses her tiny feet and, holding a little... more...

His fingers moved over the modest packet of bills the invisible rockhound had handed to him. He smiled through the eternal night that was his own personal hell. Duggan's Hades. "Thanks, Pete," he said gratefully. "Here, have a box of Conmos." His sensitized fingers found the cigars, handed over a box, and he heard the nervous scuff of the other's shoes. "This eight... more...

CHAPTER I The road which connects Portrush with Ballycastle skirts, so far as any road can and dare, the sea coast. Sometimes it is driven inland a mile or so by the impossibility of crossing tracts of sandhills. The mounds and hollows of these dunes are for ever shifting and changing. The loose sand is blown into new fantastic heights and valleys by the winter gales. No road could be built on such... more...

First day out.Weather horrible, uncertain and squally, but interesting.Developments promised.Feel fine. Smith's Log. Several tugs were persuasively nudging the Clan Macgregor out from her pier. Beside the towering flanks of the sea-monster, newest and biggest of her species, they seemed absurdly inadequate to the job. But they made up for their insignificance by self-important and fussy puffings... more...

CHAPTER IPORTRAITS "As to what the picture represents, that depends upon who looks at it."—Whistler. The French Mission in its profound wisdom had sent as liaison officer to the Scottish Division a captain of Dragoons whose name was Beltara. "Are you any relation to the painter, sir?" Aurelle, the interpreter, asked him. "What did you say?" said the dragoon. "Say that... more...

Across the narrow gorge the little foot-bridge stretched-a brace of logs, the upper surface hewn, and a slight hand-rail formed of a cedar pole. A flimsy structure, one might think, looking down at the dark and rocky depths beneath, through which flowed the mountain stream, swift and strong, but it was doubtless substantial enough for all ordinary usage, and certainly sufficient for the imponderable... more...

Just before Dinner. Mark jumped up. “You there, father! I did not hear you come in.” Doctor Robertson, tutor, half rose from his seat by the glowing library fire. “No, my boy, and I did not hear you come in.” “Why, uncle, you have been sitting there listening!” cried Dean. “To be sure I have. How could I help it, sir? I came in tired, and thought I would have a nap in my own chair till it... more...

Out of Paradise f I must tell more tales of Raffles, I can but go back to our earliest days together, and fill in the blanks left by discretion in existing annals. In so doing I may indeed fill some small part of an infinitely greater blank, across which you may conceive me to have stretched my canvas for the first frank portrait of my friend. The whole truth cannot harm him now. I shall paint in every... more...