Tono-Bungay, H. G. Wells [reading like a writer .TXT] 📗

in my limbs and back the pumping⁠—the fatigue in my arms and the memory of a clear little dribble of water that jerked as one pumped, and of knocking off and the being awakened to go on again, and of fatigue piling up upon fatigue. At last we ceased to think of anything but pumping; one became a thing of torment enchanted, doomed to pump forever. I still remember it as pure relief when at last Pollack came to me pipe in mouth.

“The captain says the damned thing’s going down right now;” he remarked, chewing his mouthpiece. “Eh?”

“Good idea!” I said. “One can’t go on pumping forever.”

And without hurry or alacrity, sullenly and wearily we got into the boats and pulled away from the Maud Mary until we were clear of her, and then we stayed resting on our oars, motionless upon a glassy sea, waiting for her to sink. We were all silent, even the captain was silent until she went down. And then he spoke quite mildly in an undertone.

“Dat is the first ship I haf ever lost.⁠ ⁠… And it was not a fair game! It wass not a cargo any man should take. No!”

I stared at the slow eddies that circled above the departed Maud Mary, and the last chance of Business Organisations. I felt weary beyond emotion. I thought of my heroics to Beatrice and my uncle, of my prompt “I’ll go,” and of all the ineffectual months I had spent after this headlong decision. I was moved to laughter at myself and fate.

But the captain and the men did not laugh. The men scowled at me and rubbed their sore and blistered hands, and set themselves to row.⁠ ⁠…

As all the world knows we were picked up by the Union Castle liner, Portland Castle.

The hairdresser aboard was a wonderful man, and he even improvised me a dress suit, and produced a clean shirt and warm underclothing. I had a hot bath, and dressed and dined and drank a bottle of Burgundy.

“Now,” I said, “are there any newspapers? I want to know what’s been happening in the world.”

My steward gave me what he had, but I landed at Plymouth still largely ignorant of the course of events. I shook off Pollack, and left the captain and mate in an hotel, and the men in a Sailor’s Home until I could send to pay them off, and I made my way to the station.

The newspapers I bought, the placards I saw, all England indeed resounded to my uncle’s bankruptcy.

Book IV The Aftermath of Tono-Bungay I The Stick of the Rocket I

That evening I talked with my uncle in the Hardingham for the last time. The atmosphere of the place had altered quite shockingly. Instead of the crowd of importunate courtiers there were just half a dozen uninviting men, journalists waiting for an interview. Ropper the big commissionaire was still there, but now indeed he was defending my uncle from something more than time-wasting intrusions. I found the little man alone in the inner office pretending to work, but really brooding. He was looking yellow and deflated.

“Lord!” he said at the sight of me. “You’re lean, George. It makes that scar of yours show up.”

We regarded each other gravely for a time.

“Quap,” I said, “is at the bottom of the Atlantic. There’s some bills⁠—We’ve got to pay the men.”

“Seen the papers?”

“Read ’em all in the train.”

“At bay,” he said. “I been at bay for a week.⁠ ⁠… Yelping round me.⁠ ⁠… And me facing the music. I’m feelin’ a bit tired.”

He blew and wiped his glasses.

“My stomack isn’t what it was,” he explained. “One finds it⁠—these times. How did it all happen, George? Your Marconigram⁠—it took me in the wind a bit.”

I told him concisely. He nodded to the paragraphs of my narrative and at the end he poured something from a medicine bottle into a sticky little wineglass and drank it. I became aware of the presence of drugs, of three or four small bottles before him among his disorder of papers, of a faint elusively familiar odour in the room.

“Yes,” he said, wiping his lips and recorking the bottle. “You’ve done your best, George. The luck’s been against us.”

He reflected, bottle in hand. “Sometimes the luck goes with you and sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes it doesn’t. And then where are you? Grass in the oven! Fight or no fight.”

He asked a few questions and then his thoughts came back to his own urgent affairs. I tried to get some comprehensive account of the situation from him, but he would not give it.

“Oh, I wish I’d had you. I wish I’d had you, George. I’ve had a lot on my hands. You’re clear headed at times.”

“What has happened?”

“Oh! Boom!⁠—infernal things.”

“Yes, but⁠—how? I’m just off the sea, remember.”

“It’d worry me too much to tell you now. It’s tied up in a skein.”

He muttered something to himself and mused darkly, and roused himself to say⁠—

“Besides⁠—you’d better keep out of it. It’s getting tight. Get ’em talking. Go down to Crest Hill and fly. That’s your affair.”

For a time his manner set free queer anxieties in my brain again.

I will confess that that Mordet Island nightmare of mine returned, and as I looked at him his hand went out for the drug again. “Stomach, George,” he said.

“I been fightin’ on that. Every man fights on something⁠—gives way somewheres⁠—head, heart, liver⁠—something. Zzzz. Gives way somewhere. Napoleon did at last. All through the Waterloo campaign, his stomach⁠—it wasn’t a stomach! Worse than mine, no end.”

The mood of depression passed as the drug worked within him. His eyes brightened. He began to talk big. He began to dress up the situation for my eyes, to recover what he had admitted to me. He put it as a retreat from Russia. There were still the chances of Leipzig.

“It’s a battle, George⁠—a big fight. We’re fighting for millions. I’ve still chances. There’s still