Genre Fiction. Page - 237

undated with rains, in their progress across a rainless desert, seeking the sea.If the surplus of water upon the Abyssinian mountains had been constant and uniform, the stream, in its passage across the desert, would have communicated very little fertility to the barren sands which it traversed. The immediate banks of the river would have, perhaps, been fringed with verdure, but the influence of the irrigation would have extended no farther than the water itself could have reached, by

stro, turning red with embarrassment, "we're going to Venus.""What's so unusual about going to Venus?" asked Strong. "We're going hunting," replied Astro. "Hunting?" "Yes, sir," gulped the big Venusian. "For tyrannosaurus." Strong's jaw dropped and he sat down suddenly on the nearest acceleration cushion. "I expected something a little strange from you three whiz kids." He laughed. "It would be impossible for you to go

e eyes are the distinctive feature of his face. They are of the very darkest hazel, bright and eager, with a singular mixture of recklessness in their expression, and of something else which I have sometimes thought was more allied with horror than any other emotion. Generally the former predominated, but on occasions, and more particularly when he was thoughtfully inclined, the look of fear would spread and deepen until it imparted a new character to his whole countenance. It is at these times

, applied science, organized manufacture, and the century--until you come to Wolverhampton. They are unique and indispensable because you cannot drink tea out of a teacup without the aid of the Five Towns; because you cannot eat a meal in decency without the aid of the Five Towns. For this the architecture of the Five Towns is an architecture of ovens and chimneys; for this its atmosphere is as black as its mud; for this it burns and smokes all night, so that Longshaw has been compared to hell;

rmagnac or red Anjou? This was a Burgundy of whichMonsieur le Marquis thought highly, and this a delicate Lombardywine that His Majesty had oft commended. Or perhaps Monsieur deChatellerault would prefer to taste the last vintage of Bardelys?And so they plagued him and bewildered him until his choice wasmade; and even then a couple of them held themselves in readinessbehind his chair to forestall his slightest want. Indeed, had hebeen the very King himself, no greater honour could we have

sh greycalled grisaille, formed the further side of the tiny apartment.Madame Poulain, turning a key, revealed a large roomy space now fitted upas a cupboard. "It's a way through into our bedroom, monsieur," she saidsmiling. "We could not of course allow our daughter to be far fromourselves." And Dampier nodded. He knew the ways of French people and sympathised withthose ways. He stepped up into the cupboard, curious to see if this too had been apowdering closet, and if that

da,would know what he was doing and that he desiredto communicate with Dorothy. For Glinda has a bigbook in which is recorded every event that takesplace anywhere in the world, just the moment thatit happens, and so of course the book would tellher about the wireless message.And that was the way Dorothy heard that theHistorian wanted to speak with her, and there wasa Shaggy Man in the Land of Oz who knew how totelegraph a wireless reply. The result was thatthe Historian begged so hard to be

start, he noted it and halted his pony after reaching the level to look about him.There was no sign of any cattle. But he reflected that perhaps a new range had been opened. Thirteen years is a long time, and many changes could have come during his absence. He was about to urge his pony on again, when some impulse moved him to turn in the saddle and glance at the hill he had just vacated. At about the spot where he had sat--perhaps two hundred yards distant--he saw a man on a horse, sitting

d has been living there these fourteen years past.''A Polish nobleman?' I asked. 'Nay, we breed no such men in Poland,' he answered. 'A Frenchman, then?' cried Duroc. 'They say that he came from France.' 'And with red hair?' 'As red as a fox.' 'Yes, yes, it is my man,' cried my companion, quivering all over in his excitement. 'It is the hand of Providence which has led me here. Who can say that there is not justice in this world? Come, Monsieur Gerard, for I must see the men safely quartered

ught over the body of Arthur Tims, Malcolm Sage's chauffeur. Sir John Dene had insisted that a car and a chauffeur were indispensable to a man who was to rival Pinkerton's. Malcolm Sage, on the other hand, had protested that it was an unnecessary expense in the early days of a concern that had yet to justify itself. To this Sir John Dene had replied, "Shucks!" at the same time notifying Tims that he was engaged for a year, and authorising him to select a car, find a garage, and wait