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    Polly
    Polly
    Polly
    Ebook50 pages39 minutes

    Polly

    By A. Castaigne, Murat Ukray and Thomas Nelson Page

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    About this ebook

    IT was Christmas Eve. I remember it just as if it was yesterday. The Colonel had been pretending not to notice it, but when Drinkwater Torm knocked over both the great candlesticks, and in his attempt to pick them up lurched over himself and fell sprawling on the floor, he yelled at him. Torm pulled himself together, and began an explanation, in which the point was that he had not "teched a drap in Gord knows how long," but the Colonel cut him short.
    "Get out of the room, you drunken vagabond!" he roared.


    Torm was deeply offended. He made a low, grand bow, and with as much dignity as his unsteady condition would admit, marched very statelily from the room, and passing out through the dining-room, where he stopped to abstract only one more drink from the long, heavy, cut-glass decanter on the sideboard, meandered to his house in the back-yard, where he proceeded to talk religion to Charity, his wife, as he always did when he was particularly drunk. He was expounding the vision of the golden candlestick, and the bowl and seven lamps and two olive-trees, when he fell asleep.


    The roarer, as has been said, was the Colonel; the meanderer was Drinkwater Torm. The Colonel gave him the name, "because," he said, "if he were to drink water once he would die."
    As Drinkwater closed the door, the Colonel continued, fiercely:
    "Damme, Polly, I will! I'll sell him to-morrow morning; and if I can't sell him I'll give him away."
    Polly, with troubled great dark eyes, was wheedling him vigorously.


    "No; I tell you, I'll sell him.—'Misery in his back!' the mischief! he's a drunken, trifling, good-for-nothing nigger! and I have sworn to sell him a thousand—yes, ten thousand times; and now I'll have to do it to keep my word."

    LanguageEnglish
    PublishereKitap Projesi
    Release dateApr 7, 2015
    ISBN9786155564505
    Polly

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      Book preview

      Polly - A. Castaigne

      Polly

      {Illustrated}

      By

      Thomas Nelson Page

      Illustrated by A. Castaigne & Murat Ukray

      ILLUSTRATED &

      PUBLISHED BY

      e-KİTAP PROJESİ & CHEAPEST BOOKS

      www.cheapestboooks.com

      www.facebook.com/EKitapProjesi

      Copyright, 2014 by e-Kitap Projesi

      Istanbul

      ISBN: 978-615-5564-505

      * * * * *

      POLLY

      A CHRISTMAS RECOLLECTION

      BY THOMAS NELSON PAGE

      ILLUSTRATED BY A. CASTAIGNE

      NEW YORK, 1897

      ***

      "The young man found it necessary to lean over and throw a steadying arm around her."

      IT was Christmas Eve. I remember it just as if it was yesterday. The Colonel had been pretending not to notice it, but when Drinkwater Torm knocked over both the great candlesticks, and in his attempt to pick them up lurched over himself and fell sprawling on the floor, he yelled at him. Torm pulled himself together, and began an explanation, in which the point was that he had not teched a drap in Gord knows how long, but the Colonel cut him short.

      Get out of the room, you drunken vagabond! he roared.

      Torm was deeply offended. He made a low, grand bow, and with as much dignity as his unsteady condition would admit, marched very statelily from the room, and passing out through the dining-room, where he stopped to abstract only one more drink from the long, heavy, cut-glass decanter on the sideboard, meandered to his house in the back-yard, where he proceeded to talk religion to Charity, his wife, as he always did when he was particularly drunk. He was expounding the vision of the golden candlestick, and the bowl and seven lamps and two olive-trees, when he fell asleep.

      The roarer, as has been said, was the Colonel; the meanderer was Drinkwater Torm. The Colonel gave him the name, because, he said, if he were to drink water once he would die.

      As Drinkwater closed the door, the Colonel continued, fiercely:

      Damme, Polly, I will! I'll sell him to-morrow morning; and if I can't sell him I'll give him away.

      Polly, with troubled great dark eyes, was wheedling him vigorously.

      No; I tell you, I'll sell him.—'Misery in his back!' the mischief! he's a drunken, trifling, good-for-nothing nigger! and I have sworn to sell him a thousand—yes, ten thousand times; and now I'll have to do it to keep my word.

      This was true. The Colonel swore this a dozen times a day—every time Torm got drunk, and as that had occurred very frequently for many years before Polly was born, he was not outside of the limit. Polly, however, was the only one this threat ever troubled. The Colonel knew he could no more have gotten on without Torm than his old open-faced watch, which looked for all the world like a model of himself, could have run without the mainspring. From tying his shoes and getting his shaving-water to making his juleps and lighting his candles, which was all he had to do, Drinkwater Torm was necessary to him. (I think he used to make the threat just to prove to himself that Torm did not own

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