How to Tell a Story by Mark Twain

How to Tell a Story

by Mark Twain

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I do not claim that I can tell a story as it ought to be told. I only claim to know how a story ought to be told, for I have been almost daily in the company of the most expert story-tellers for many years.

There are several kinds of stories, but only one difficult kind --the humorous. I will talk mainly about that one. The humorous story is American, the comic story is English, the witty story is French. The humorous story depends for its effect upon the manner of the telling; the comic story and the witty story upon the matter.

The humorous story may be spun out to great length, and may wander around as much as it pleases, and arrive nowhere in particular; but the comic and witty stories must be brief and end with a point. The humorous story bubbles gently along, the others burst.

The humorous story is strictly a work of art--high and delicate art --and only an artist can tell it; but no art is necessary in telling the comic and the witty story; anybody can do it. The art of telling a humorous story--understand, I mean by word of mouth, not print --was created in America, and has remained at home.

The humorous story is told gravely; the teller does his best to conceal the fact that he even dimly suspects that there is anything funny about it; but the teller of the comic story tells you beforehand that it is one of the funniest things he has ever heard, then tells it with eager delight, and is the first person to laugh when he gets through. And sometimes, if he has had good success, he is so glad and happy that he will repeat the "nub" of it and glance around from face to face, collecting applause, and then repeat it again. It is a pathetic thing to see.

Very often, of course, the rambling and disjointed humorous story finishes with a nub, point, snapper, or whatever you like to call it. Then the listener must be alert, for in many cases the teller will divert attention from that nub by dropping it in a carefully casual and indifferent way, with the pretense that he does not know it is a nub.

Artemus Ward used that trick a good deal; then when the belated audience presently caught the joke he would look up with innocent surprise, as if wondering what they had found to laugh at. Dan Setchell used it before him, Nye and Riley and others use it today.

But the teller of the comic story does not slur the nub; he shouts it at you--every time. And when he prints it, in England, France, Germany, and Italy, he italicizes it, puts some whopping exclamation-points after it, and sometimes explains it in a parenthesis. All of which is very depressing, and makes one want to renounce joking and lead a better life.

Let me set down an instance of the comic method, using an anecdote which has been popular all over the world for twelve or fifteen hundred years. The teller tells it in this way:

THE WOUNDED SOLDIER

In the course of a certain battle a soldier whose leg had been shot off appealed to another soldier who was hurrying by to carry him to the rear, informing him at the same time of the loss which he had sustained; whereupon the generous son of Mars, shouldering the unfortunate, proceeded to carry out his desire. The bullets and cannon-balls were flying in all directions, and presently one of the latter took the wounded man's head off--without, however, his deliverer being aware of it. In no long time he was hailed by an officer, who said:

"Where are you going with that carcass?"

"To the rear, sir--he's lost his leg!"

"His leg, forsooth?" responded the astonished officer; "you mean his head, you booby."

Whereupon the soldier dispossessed himself of his burden, and stood looking down upon it in great perplexity. At length he said:

"It is true, sir, just as you have said." Then after a pause he added, "BUT HE TOLD ME IT WAS HIS LEG!!!!!"

Here the narrator bursts into explosion after explosion of thunderous horse-laughter, repeating that nub from time to time through his gasping and shriekings and suffocatings.

It takes only a minute and a half to tell that in its comic-story form; and isn't worth the telling, after all. Put into the humorous-story form it takes ten minutes, and is about the funniest thing I have ever listened to--as James Whitcomb Riley tells it.

He tells it in the character of a dull-witted old farmer who has just heard it for the first time, thinks it is unspeakably funny, and is trying to repeat it to a neighbor. But he can't remember it; so he gets all mixed up and wanders helplessly round and round, putting in tedious details that don't belong in the tale and only retard it; taking them out conscientiously and putting in others that are just as useless; making minor mistakes now and then and stopping to correct them and explain how he came to make them; remembering things which he forgot to put in in their proper place and going back to put them in there; stopping his narrative a good while in order to try to recall the name of the soldier that was hurt, and finally remembering that the soldier's name was not mentioned, and remarking placidly that the name is of no real importance, anyway --better, of course, if one knew it, but not essential, after all --and so on, and so on, and so on.

The teller is innocent and happy and pleased with himself, and has to stop every little while to hold himself in and keep from laughing outright; and does hold in, but his body quakes in a jelly-like way with interior chuckles; and at the end of the ten minutes the audience have laughed until they are exhausted, and the tears are running down their faces.

The simplicity and innocence and sincerity and unconsciousness of the old farmer are perfectly simulated, and the result is a performance which is thoroughly charming and delicious. This is art--and fine and beautiful, and only a master can compass it; but a machine could tell the other story.

To string incongruities and absurdities together in a wandering and sometimes purposeless way, and seem innocently unaware that they are absurdities, is the basis of the American art, if my position is correct. Another feature is the slurring of the point. A third is the dropping of a studied remark apparently without knowing it, as if one where thinking aloud. The fourth and last is the pause.

Artemus Ward dealt in numbers three and four a good deal. He would begin to tell with great animation something which he seemed to think was wonderful; then lose confidence, and after an apparently absent-minded pause add an incongruous remark in a soliloquizing way; and that was the remark intended to explode the mine--and it did.

For instance, he would say eagerly, excitedly, "I once knew a man in New Zealand who hadn't a tooth in his head"--here his animation would die out; a silent, reflective pause would follow, then he would say dreamily, and as if to himself, "and yet that man could beat a drum better than any man I ever saw."

The pause is an exceedingly important feature in any kind of story, and a frequently recurring feature, too. It is a dainty thing, and delicate, and also uncertain and treacherous; for it must be exactly the right length--no more and no less--or it fails of its purpose and makes trouble. If the pause is too short the impressive point is passed, and the audience have had time to divine that a surprise is intended--and then you can't surprise them, of course.

On the platform I used to tell a negro ghost story that had a pause in front of the snapper on the end, and that pause was the most important thing in the whole story. If I got it the right length precisely, I could spring the finishing ejaculation with effect enough to make some impressible girl deliver a startled little yelp and jump out of her seat--and that was what I was after. This story was called "The Golden Arm," and was told in this fashion. You can practice with it yourself--and mind you look out for the pause and get it right.

THE GOLDEN ARM

Once 'pon a time dey wuz a momsus mean man, en he live 'way out in de prairie all 'lone by hisself, 'cep'n he had a wife. En bimeby she died, en he tuck en toted her way out dah in de prairie en buried her. Well, she had a golden arm--all solid gold, fum de shoulder down. He wuz pow'ful mean--pow'ful; en dat night he couldn't sleep, caze he want dat golden arm so bad.

When it come midnight he couldn't stan' it no mo'; so he git up, he did, en tuck his lantern en shoved out thoo de storm en dug her up en got de golden arm; en he bent his head down 'gin de 'win, en plowed en plowed en plowed thoo de snow. Den all on a sudden he stop (make a considerable pause here, and look startled, and take a listening attitude) en say: "My LAN', what's dat?"

En he listen--en listen--en de win' say (set your teeth together and imitate the wailing and wheezing singsong of the wind), "Bzzz-z-zzz"--en den, way back yonder whah de grave is, he hear a VOICE!--he hear a voice all mix' up in de win'--can't hardly tell 'em 'part--"Bzzz--zzz--W-h-o--g-o-t--m-y--g-o-l-d-e-n ARM?" (You must begin to shiver violently now.)

En he begin to shiver en shake, en say, "Oh, my! OH, my lan'!" en de win' blow de lantern out, en de snow en sleet blow in his face en mos' choke him, en he start a-plowin' knee-deep toward home mos' dead, he so sk'yerd--en pooty soon he hear de voice agin, en (pause) it 'us comin AFTER him! "Bzzz--zzz--zzz W-h-o--g-o-t--m-y--g-o-l-d-e-n--ARM?"

When he git to de pasture he hear it agin--closter now, en A-COMIN'!--a-comin' back dah in de dark en de storm--(repeat the wind and the voice). When he git to de house he rush upstairs en jump in de bed en kiver up, head and years, en lay da shiverin' en shakin'--en den way out dah he hear it AGIN!--en a-COMIN'! En bimeby he hear (pause--awed, listening attitude)--pat--pat--pat HIT'S A-COMIN' UPSTAIRS! Den he hear de latch, en he KNOW it's in de room!

Den pooty soon he know it's a-STANNIN' BY DE BED! (Pause.) Den --he know it's a-BENDIN' DOWN OVER HIM--en he cain't skasely git his breath! Den--den--he seem to feel someth'n' C-O-L-D, right down 'most agin his head! (Pause.)

Den de voice say, RIGHT AT HIS YEAR--"W-h-o--g-o-t--m-y g-o-l-d-e-n ARM?" (You must wail it out very plaintively and accusingly; then you stare steadily and impressively into the face of the farthest-gone auditor --a girl, preferably--and let that awe-inspiring pause begin to build itself in the deep hush. When it has reached exactly the right length, jump suddenly at that girl and yell, "YOU'VE got it!")

If you've got the PAUSE right, she'll fetch a dear little yelp and spring right out of her shoes. But you MUST get the pause right; and you will find it the most troublesome and aggravating and uncertain thing you ever undertook.

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 About the Author 

Samuel Langhorne Clemens (November 30, 1835 – April 21, 1910), known by his pen name Mark Twain, was an American writer, humorist, entrepreneur, publisher, and lecturer. He was praised as the "greatest humorist the United States has produced", and William Faulkner called him "the father of American literature". His novels include The Adventures of Tom Sawyer (1876) and its sequel, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (1884), the latter of which has often been called the "Great American Novel". Twain also wrote A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court (1889) and Pudd'nhead Wilson (1894), and co-wrote The Gilded Age: A Tale of Today (1873) with Charles Dudley Warner. Wikipedia

 Born: Samuel Langhorne Clemens; November 30, 1835; Florida, Missouri, U.S
Died: April 21, 1910 (aged 74); Stormfield House, Redding, Connecticut, U.S
Parents: John Marshall Clemens (father); Jane Lampton Clemens (mother)
Children: 4, including Susy, Clara, and Jean

 Mark Twain Books at Amazon

Also see:

• How to Tell a Story and Other Essays by Mark Twain

The Woman Obsession By William Campbell Gault

 

The Woman Obsession

By William Campbell Gault

Surely Collins was an idiot. He kept dreaming of women in a world that knew nothing of love's delight. But where there's life—

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe September 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

Few writers possess William Campbell Gault's sensitive capacity for balancing delicacy with daring in themes which gracefully skirt the edge of the outrageous, and open up entire new worlds of speculation which future historians will most assuredly encounter in their travels time and time again. Seldom has he written a story more imaginatively audacious than this.

It was on the Mars-Jupiter run, a trip flea-bitten with asteroids, and needing a Level-One navigator. In all the galaxy, there were three Level-One navigators, and Horse Collins was one, and he was ours. By 'ours,' I mean Gideon Shipping, Inc. Twelve years I've piloted for them, and I think they're the best in the business.

Johnny "Horse" Collins was a typical space bum in one way. He was restless, he wanted to see what was out there. But he lacked discipline. And his thinking was earth-bound conventional. He'd even played football at college, and that's where he'd picked up the 'Horse' nickname. He'd been an All-Earth fullback, and why he'd gone on to navigator's school from there I'm not competent to judge. A man who can make All-Earth in a game dominated by robots is bound to have some body. No one but a sportswriter would suspect he might also have a mind.

Horse had a fine mind for his business; otherwise he was, as I've said, rather conventional, like a fullback. He liked women, for one thing.

"Why?" I asked him one day. "Their primary function is handled better by the Massago-Lust. If they have any secondary functions, I've forgotten them."

"You never knew any of their functions, except through books," Horse answered. "Second-hand living."

I stared at him. If traveling among the stars wasn't living, then what the hell was? I asked him that pointblank.

"It's nothing I could explain to you," he said. "You're space-happy."

"Why are you here, Horse?" I asked him quietly.

"Because I thought there'd be adventure, out here. Strange lands and strange people."

"Jupiter isn't a strange land. It's simply a land of ice and lava, a grotesque, fascinating, frightening...."

"No people," Horse interrupted. "And how about Mars?"

"Mars is a disappointment, sure. I was talking about Jupiter, and you say 'no people.' Earth is full of people. Too full. That's why we have the Massago-Lust."

"And the women rationed to the scientists. Who do they think they are?"

"They're the people who cut our shackles, fullback. They're the people who refused to be earth-bound."

"Mmm-hmm. And they're the cuties who could just as well maintain the population quota with artificial insemination, too. But do they? Come to think of it, why don't they?"

"You'd better check your orbit log," I told him. "We're getting into asteroid alley."

"Yes, Chief. Yes, Boss. Yes, Sir!" He pulled out the flats, and looked through the electronic scanner. Then he picked up a stylus and adjusted it to the graph arm, and took another look through the scanner.

He seemed to be frozen there. "Mi Gawd—"

"What's happened? You damned fullback, if you've lost our line to—"

He waved, stiff-armed. "Shut up. We're right on orbit. I just saw a woman. And what a woman. She was waving to me!"

In all the galaxy there had been three Level-One navigators. There were now two.

"Naturally," I said patiently. "You would. That would be your mirage—a woman."

"I saw a woman," Horse insisted evenly, "on—" He was consulting his flats, frowning. "On—Well, I'll be damned."

"You also saw a planetoid that doesn't exist. I'll name it for you, Horse's Asteroid. A fitting name."

Collins didn't answer, right away. He was flipping levers, connecting the scanner to the chart, and also to the controls. Then he said, "Okay, Skipper. We're under mechanical control. Relax, if you know how."

I locked the board and stretched my neck. Horse lighted a cigarette, a vice I deny myself. His eyes looked—bemused.

I said, "You saw a woman where there could be no women. I'll have to enter it in the log, Johnny."

"Sure," he said. He took a deep and weary breath. "You know what the boys call you?"

"Slide Rule Sam," I answered. "I'm proud of it."

"Why? A robot could handle your job."

"For a man who made his reputation in a robot's game, you're talking rather haughtily, fullback. If a robot could handle my job, a robot would be giving you orders right now. Gideon Shipping is cost-conscious enough for that, despite the wages they pay."

"Wages," Johnny said. "Is that all a man works for, wages?"

"At our level, that's all a man works for," I assured him. "You're talking like a Capitalist, Horse." I watched for a reaction.

He started to say something, then shook his head. "You'd probably enter that in the log, too, if I said it." He put out his cigarette thoughtfully. "Sam, on the way back I want you to look through that scanner. If we delay our trip back an hour, the orbits of the other planetoids will be about right, and that one should be, too. Then you can enter the fact that we both saw it. You think I'm space-simple. But you won't be able to doubt what you'll see with your own eyes."

I said evenly, "I've traveled this line for twelve years and I've had navigators before who saw mirages. You're just not emotionally stable, Horse."

"I'm not punchy, either," Horse said. "You can have my resignation right now, Sam."

"Resignation? That's a word I've forgotten, Horse. You'll be re-assigned when we return to base."

He lighted another cigarette and went back to his desk. And I wondered who we'd get to take his place. The schools hadn't had a Level-One navigator in six years and the only two graduates who met that specification were very happy on other runs. Maybe, he wasn't completely gone.... Maybe...? But that wasn't scientific thinking.

Horse said, "Ever read about the old trains on Earth, Sam?"

"Second-hand living," I quoted him. "That's what you called reading."

"All right. It's better than not living at all. Anyway, in those old days, people along the tracks used to wave at the passengers as the trains roared by, for no reason I can think of. At any rate, for no scientific reason. What happened to me was pretty much like that. Sort of romantic, wasn't it?"

"An earth-bound iron sluggard moving through cow pastures. Is that romantic to a man who's seen Jupiter?"

"No, I guess not," Horse said quietly. "Only to me, I guess."

I turned on the video-viewer above the board, and as the glow brightened, I could see the robot quarters and Van Elling playing bridge with three of our brightest automatons. Van's a great boy to buck impossible odds, but otherwise rational. He's our robot master.

Van looked up from the game at the signal light, and smiled, "About time, Skipper?"

"You'd have to ask the navigator."

Van's eyes shifted. "What's he sulking about?"

Horse waved. "How you coming with the master-minds?"

"I'm winning. I've found a system." He looked back at me. "Skipper, there should be two robot masters on this run, and you know it."

Horse laughed. "A partner, eh, Van?"

"Why not? Psychic bids, that's what throws them off. But it throws off my partner, too, and I don't make what I should. How about it, Sam?"

I said, "You wanted a report from the navigator. I'm holding the screen open for that."

Van Elling's face stiffened, and his eyes went to Horse's. Collins said, "Seven hours and twelve minutes." I turned off the viewer.

Silence in the cabin and I was uncomfortable. Damn it, there had to be discipline on board, and I was in command.

Horse said quietly, "Are you a natural son-of-a-broomstick, or do you work at it?"

Rage flamed in me, and I waited until it had languished. Then I said calmly, "I'm your superior, and I've been too lenient. I'm not strong enough to fight you but I'm powerful enough to destroy you. I intend to. Look forward to a long career in the mines of Mars, fullback."

"Even you, with all your connections, couldn't rig that," Horse said lightly. "You can ground me, and hope I get court-martialed for insubordination. I've a few connections, too."

Silence, again. I went over to his scanner and checked our co-ordinates. I brought out the log and entered his mirage and his insubordination. Why quibble? Let the record speak.

Europa loomed below us, now, and Jupiter dead ahead. The oxygenator sent its draft along the back of my neck, and I shifted in my seat, remembering his question about artificial insemination. That in itself could be considered subversive. Not that I hadn't thought it, and millions of others, but he'd voiced it.

The scientists had the money, the power, the commerce. And hadn't they earned it? Hadn't they made all this quite possible?

We hadn't said a word right up to the time I put the forward blasters on for the Jupiter mooring.

The buzzer from the rear hatch was buzzing now, and I threw the switch to open it. Van Elling came in with his duryllium helmet on, beating his hands on his thighs.

Collins helped him with the helmet, and Van said, "Cold, cold, cold, cold, cold. Chief, we might lose a couple minutes on the loading. Those boys aren't what they were when we bought them."

Through the oxygenator, I could smell ammonia and burning elgeron. I went to the viewer room and switched to the landing ramp. The robots were moving down the ramp at a pace which might have been slower than usual, but didn't seem so to me.

Behind me, I could hear Van Elling and Horse Collins whispering. Mutiny?

I watched the first of the robots go into the big hole that led to the elgeron deposits, and came back to see Van at the duplicate robot control board we had to use at the end of a trip. Van was looking worried, but it could have been feigned.

"A few minutes?" I asked. "How many is a few?"

"I said 'a couple' only, Chief, but I think that was a bad guess. It might be an hour."

Horse was smiling. Van kept his face averted.

"Delayed an hour?" I asked, and then it came to me. Horse wanted another look at his asteroid. That's why they'd whispered.

"I'm afraid," I said, "an hour's delay would be too long, and I hope neither of you think I'm being fooled by your cute little tricks. This isn't the time for trickery."

"Sorry, Chief," Van said. "I'm doing the best I can."

He kept his attention on the control board and Horse bent over his charts. They ignored me. Well, I had a lot of strings to pull. They'd regret this day, both of them.

The smell of molten elgeron was heavy now, and the bite of ammonia. The robots were coming back up the ramp, carrying enormous chunks of the solidified, translucent stuff. On Mars, it would be crushed in the huge, automatic grinders and mixed with the stydium of that planet, and sent in radiation-proof ships to the laboratories of Earth.

One robot seemed to falter for a second, and I glanced quickly back toward the cabin where I could just see Van at the control board. I couldn't tell by his manipulation of the toggles whether the robot's falter was deliberate or not, but I saw him glance at Collins and smile.

Rage simmered in me, pulsated, and I stood there for seconds in the viewing room, waiting for it to recede. The whole line of robots was stationary now and the one who'd faltered was leaning over against the guard rail of the ramp.

I came into the cabin and said, "You'd better put on your suit, Van. There's a robot out there holding up the line."

Jupiter was no place to venture without proper radiation shielding, and our space suits weren't the best in the world for radiation protection.

He said, "I think I can handle it from here, Chief."

Horse said quickly, "I'll go out and see what I can do. No sense in taking a chance on jamming the whole line, Van." Collins glanced at me for confirmation.

I shrugged. "Suit yourself. But remember—I didn't order you out."

"Unless you'd like to go, Chief," Horse said meaningfully.

I shook my head. I flushed, too, though there wasn't any reason for it. Unnecessary risks are not a part of a pilot's job.

Horse murmured something that sounded like "gutless" and I said sharply, "Would you repeat that?"

His gaze met mine levelly. "I didn't say a word, Chief. I'll get my suit on."

In a little while, I saw him out there on the ramp putting on a great show of trying to adjust the robot's delemeter, which is what gives them their uncanny balance.

After about twenty minutes, he waved and stood to one side, and Van Elling sent the impulse through. The robot staggered, and then came back to an upright position. Collins stood at the broad part of the ramp as the line began to move again.

Discipline begins with self-discipline, I told myself. No man ever achieved anything without self-control.

The more complex robots stayed in the storeroom of the ship, checking the tonnage, and classifying the elgeron according to quality. These were just the haulers, on the ramp, and Van controlled them completely from his board.

His word regarding their breakdown would be the accepted word with the bosses. I would have a difficult job getting anything on Van Elling.

But Horse Collins? Horse had seen a woman on an asteroid that didn't exist. Horse had been guilty of insubordination. He would need more friends than he had to wriggle out from under those charges.

There was another breakdown before we were finished loading, and they'd timed it well. We blasted off an hour later than usual.

Van went back to the robot quarters and Horse to his charts, and I had some more entries for the log. I'm not a talkative man, but Horse was. The silence in the cabin must have bothered him.

He said, "Chief, we could start over. We could forget the nasty things that have been said."

"I have forgotten them," I said. "Once I enter something in the log, I forget it."

"All that happened you entered in the log?"

"All. Including your earlier request to delay our return an hour." I paused. "The disciplinary board can read whatever inferences they want from that, in the light of what happened later."

"I see. The report would put Van in the soup, too, Chief."

"I suppose."

"That'll lose you two good men."

"Will it?"

Silence for over an hour, and then Horse said, "Before the company filled you full of that discipline garbage, were you human, Sam? Did you dream of a better world, a normal world, a world with women?"

"Some things we outgrow," I said. "I'm doing exactly what I want to do."

Horse sighed, and the silence grew again.

I was dozing the next time he opened his mouth. "It's not necessary to stick it to Van, too, is it, Chief?"

"I record," I said. "I don't judge."

"It wasn't necessary to record my request. Don't give me that, Chief."

"In my opinion, it was necessary."

"Okay. Would you check my co-ordinates?"

He'd caught me in a nap, and I didn't think of the time. It was a routine request in a routine voice and I rose without thinking and went over to the scanner.

I put my eye to the eye-piece and saw her. A dark girl, without clothes, more beautifully shaped than any picture I'd ever carried as an adolescent. And she was waving!

A trembling possessed me, but I fought it. I looked up instantly at Horse, and I said, "You've increased the magnification about three million times beyond the requirements of the co-ordinate check. How do you expect me to substantiate your findings?"

Horse was smiling. "I know, I know. What'd you see, Chief?"

"Nothing. There was nothing to see. This will be recorded, too, Collins."

Collins was still smiling. "You'll record there was nothing to see?"

"I certainly will, and that you had the electronic scanner up to its full magnification for no apparent reason. That should finish you, Collins."

"Chief, if you saw nothing through that scanner, you're already finished. I don't want to stay in a service that would make something like you out of me."

"You haven't the stuff to become something like me," I told him, and went back to my chair.

"The service," he said gently, "is looking for planets or planetoids that will support our kind of life. And you've just seen our kind of life. And you're not going to report it. That's going to be your cross. Because, Slide Rule, I'm not going to report it, either. That's my secret, back there. That's mine."

"Whatever it was you think you saw, you'll never see it again, Collins," I told him. "This is the only line from Mars to Jupiter and you're going to be out of work once we're back to base."

"You think," he said. "You hope. You pray."

I wonder what he thought I'd been doing in my twelve years with Gideon? I wonder if he thought I was so stupid I wouldn't have a few lines to the right people in twelve years? Did he think only the noisy ones could play this political game?

Once out of asteroid alley, I dozed. And dozing, dreamed of that black haired temptress waving, dreamed of her like some pimply-faced young idiot. Gad, if a man couldn't discipline himself after my training....

I wakened to find Horse nodding over his board.

I said sharply, "I'm ready to eat, Collins."

His head jerked upright, and he stared at me a few seconds. Then he stood up and went out to the small galley.

A stinking fullback trying to play the political game with Slide Rule Sam. How these athletes loved to over-rate themselves.

He brought my food, and then went into the galley to eat his.

When he came out, he said, "I'd like to nap, if you're going to be awake, Chief."

"I'll be awake for two hours. You'd better sleep fast."

"You're the boss," he said, which was his admission.

I gave him a bad time the rest of the trip and got not a single complaint out of him. And at Mars, we put on our suits and went ashore, and I entered my complaints with the subsidiary board at the company headquarters there.

They got us transportation to Earth next morning, and both Van and Horse were held for trial the following week.

That gave me time, and I pulled every string I knew in the four days before the trial. Horse was almost irreplaceable; Van could be replaced in five minutes.

But there was no need to worry about Collins. He didn't fight. He pulled no strings I knew of, and when he went up in front of the board, he pleaded space insanity.

He'd seen a mirage, he'd insisted on my checking it, he'd called me names and he took the full responsibility for the robot breakdown. Trying to save Van, I suppose, with that last.

Horse had a company lawyer, and he tried to establish the line that perhaps there had been life on the asteroid and that a discovery of that importance over-shadowed the charges of insubordination and temporary space insanity.

I got on the stand and swore there had been no sign of life and not even an asteroid where Horse had fixed the scanner. I was safe enough, I knew. There were only a few ships on the run, and no other with a scanner of our power.

I hadn't wasted the four days. For three years, I'd been studying navigation in my spare time. I wasn't really qualified for the Mars-Jupiter run, but I had men high in the company who thought I was. I'd get by until I learned.

I didn't want anyone else on that scanner.

Van Elling was fired without prejudice, but I knew he'd have some time trying to get back into the service after the publicity of the trial.

Collins was held over for a higher review of his case on the possibility that his background was subversive. I was sure they'd find some capitalistic group he'd belonged to briefly in college.

I was back on Mars when I got word through the new pilot that Horse had never been brought before the higher tribunal. Somewhere, Van had managed to buy an obsolete, atomic two seater, and Horse had broken out of Embardo. The two of them had been seen by one of the Gideon ships a few million miles beyond Galaxy E.

Typical fullback thinking—that—taking off into space. If he'd wanted to hide, Earth was the place for it. Where could he get to with a clunk of a two seater? He was a navigator, granted. But he'd have to have something worthwhile to navigate.

Both the new pilot and the new robot master were young and properly respectful, space-dedicated boys, and my life, I knew, was going to be pleasant. And once I had mastered navigation, I was going to be damned near irreplaceable.

As we bored through space on the old familiar run, the thought came to me that probably Horse would head for his asteroid, and if he should make it, wouldn't that be something? Two men and one girl. I wonder how long Van would live.

Van was no fullback, nor a reasonably accurate facsimile thereof. Unless he had a weapon, he'd be no match for Horse.

The image of the girl came back to haunt me. I knew there'd been an expedition or two lost in asteroid alley on early exploratory trips, but they hadn't carried women. And her face was familiar.

I went to a library and thumbed through some old newsprints. Of course! The photograph fairly leapt at me. Elsbeth Parrish, the science hater, the woman who'd gone on a lecture tour ridiculing the powers that be, making converts first in the women's schools and then in the co-educational institutions. The 'Live for Love' girl, Elsbeth Parrish.

Naturally the government had cracked down and tried to deport her to Mars. She'd disappeared a week before the trial, and one of those old Interplan Rocket Sedans had disappeared with her. The government had given her up as lost in space.

I could understand now why Horse had made the confession at his trial and why he'd been so submissive on the return trip from Jupiter. He'd tricked me into swearing there was no life on the asteroid. And now he could safely head there, because I was the one man alive besides him and Van Elling who knew there was life there, and my future depended on my not revealing it.

But could he make it in an atomic two seater? And two men for one woman—if he did make it? I had to know the answer.

When we came into asteroid alley, I had the scanner's magnification on at full strength, and I also had the automatic scanning control adjusted to the orbits I wanted. Even Horse Collins couldn't have pin-pointed it any better.

I wish I'd missed it. For both of them were there, Horse and Van, looking up my way and smiling, too. The slobs. There wasn't one woman there. There were three, all beautiful.

Two men and three women.

The dirty, science-hating sons.

Also see:

• William Campbell Gault's Books at Amazon

The Vellys: Kindle Vella’s Exciting Writing Contest

The Vellys: Kindle Vella’s Exciting Writing Contest

Are you an aspiring writer or an established author? Kindle Vella invites you to participate in its inaugural writing contest: The Vellys! This exciting competition celebrates episodic fiction that resonates with readers.

What Are The Vellys?

• Contest Duration: Submissions are open from June 25, 2024, until August 20, 2024.
• Eligibility: The contest is open to all authors, whether you’re penning your first story or have a string of published works.
• Prizes: A total of 15 cash prizes, amounting to $62,000, are up for grabs!
  • Grand Prize: $25,000
  • Newcomer Prize: $15,000 (for the best story from a first-time author)
• Judging Criteria: The Vella team will evaluate stories based on originality, creativity, character development, and plot depth.
• Winners Announcement: Mark your calendars for September 17, 2024, when the winners will be revealed.

Why Participate?

• Royalties and Monthly Bonus: Not only do you have a chance to win cash prizes, but all contest entries are also eligible for royalties and a monthly bonus.
• Literary Vibes: Kindle Vella’s platform is perfect for serial fiction, allowing you to engage readers one episode at a time.

How to Enter

1. Write Your Story: Craft your captivating episodic fiction.
2. Submit: Visit Kindle Vella’s official page for submission details.
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So, whether you’re a seasoned storyteller or a fresh voice, dive into The Vellys and share your literary magic. Happy writing!!!

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For more information and to nominate your story, visit the official Kindle Vella Vellys page. Good luck!!!

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The Vellys: Follow your favorite stories to vote.
Come back for new submissions as they are added.

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A Medieval Romance by Mark Twain

 

A Medieval Romance

by Mark Twain

CHAPTER I. THE SECRET REVEALED.

It was night. Stillness reigned in the grand old feudal castle of Klugenstein. The year 1222 was drawing to a close. Far away up in the tallest of the castle's towers a single light glimmered. A secret council was being held there. The stern old lord of Klugenstein sat in a chair of state meditating. Presently he, said, with a tender accent:

"My daughter!"

A young man of noble presence, clad from head to heel in knightly mail, answered:

"Speak, father!"

"My daughter, the time is come for the revealing of the mystery that hath puzzled all your young life. Know, then, that it had its birth in the matters which I shall now unfold. My brother Ulrich is the great Duke of Brandenburgh. Our father, on his deathbed, decreed that if no son were born to Ulrich, the succession should pass to my house, provided a son were born to me. And further, in case no son, were born to either, but only daughters, then the succession should pass to Ulrich's daughter, if she proved stainless; if she did not, my daughter should succeed, if she retained a blameless name. And so I, and my old wife here, prayed fervently for the good boon of a son, but the prayer was vain. You were born to us. I was in despair. I saw the mighty prize slipping from my grasp, the splendid dream vanishing away. And I had been so hopeful! Five years had Ulrich lived in wedlock, and yet his wife had borne no heir of either sex.

"'But hold,' I said, 'all is not lost.' A saving scheme had shot athwart my brain. You were born at midnight. Only the leech, the nurse, and six waiting-women knew your sex. I hanged them every one before an hour had sped. Next morning all the barony went mad with rejoicing over the proclamation that a son was born to Klugenstein, an heir to mighty Brandenburgh! And well the secret has been kept. Your mother's own sister nursed your infancy, and from that time forward we feared nothing.

"When you were ten years old, a daughter was born to Ulrich. We grieved, but hoped for good results from measles, or physicians, or other natural enemies of infancy, but were always disappointed. She lived, she throve- -Heaven's malison upon her! But it is nothing. We are safe. For, Ha-ha! have we not a son? And is not our son the future Duke? Our well- beloved Conrad, is it not so?--for, woman of eight-and-twenty years--as you are, my child, none other name than that hath ever fallen to you!

"Now it hath come to pass that age hath laid its hand upon my brother, and he waxes feeble. The cares of state do tax him sore. Therefore he wills that you shall come to him and be already Duke--in act, though not yet in name. Your servitors are ready--you journey forth to-night.

"Now listen well. Remember every word I say. There is a law as old as Germany that if any woman sit for a single instant in the great ducal chair before she hath been absolutely crowned in presence of the people, SHE SHALL DIE! So heed my words. Pretend humility. Pronounce your judgments from the Premier's chair, which stands at the foot of the throne. Do this until you are crowned and safe. It is not likely that your sex will ever be discovered; but still it is the part of wisdom to make all things as safe as may be in this treacherous earthly life."

"Oh; my father, is it for this my life hath been a lie! Was it that I might cheat my unoffending cousin of her rights? Spare me, father, spare your child!"

"What, huzzy! Is this my reward for the august fortune my brain has wrought for thee? By the bones of my father, this puling sentiment of thine but ill accords with my humor.

"Betake thee to the Duke, instantly! And beware how thou meddlest with my purpose!"

Let this suffice, of the conversation. It is enough for us to know that the prayers, the entreaties and the tears of the gentle-natured girl availed nothing. They nor anything could move the stout old lord of Klugenstein. And so, at last, with a heavy heart, the daughter saw the castle gates close behind her, and found herself riding away in the darkness surrounded by a knightly array of armed, vassals and a brave following of servants.

The old baron sat silent for many minutes after his daughter's departure, and then he turned to his sad wife and said:

"Dame, our matters seem speeding fairly. It is full three months since I sent the shrewd and handsome Count Detzin on his devilish mission to my brother's daughter Constance. If he fail, we are not wholly safe; but if he do succeed, no power can bar our girl from being Duchess e'en though ill-fortune should decree she never should be Duke!"

"My heart is full of bodings, yet all may still be well."

"Tush, woman! Leave the owls to croak. To bed with ye, and dream of Brandenburgh and grandeur!"

CHAPTER II. FESTIVITY AND TEARS

Six days after the occurrences related in the above chapter, the brilliant capital of the Duchy of Brandenburgh was resplendent with military pageantry, and noisy with the rejoicings of loyal multitudes; for Conrad, the young heir to the crown, was come. The old Duke's, heart was full of happiness, for Conrad's handsome person and graceful bearing had won his love at once. The great halls of tie palace were thronged with nobles, who welcomed Conrad bravely; and so bright and happy did all things seem, that he felt his fears and sorrows passing away and giving place to a comforting contentment.

But in a remote apartment of the palace a scene of a different nature was, transpiring. By a window stood the Duke's only child, the Lady Constance. Her eyes were red and swollen, and full of tears. She was alone. Presently she fell to weeping anew, and said aloud:

"The villain Detzin is gone--has fled the dukedom! I could not believe it at first, but alas! it is too true. And I loved him so. I dared to love him though I knew the Duke my father would never let me wed him. I loved him--but now I hate him! With all, my soul I hate him! Oh, what is to become of me! I am lost, lost, lost!. I shall go mad!"

CHAPTER III. THE PLOT THICKENS.

Few months drifted by. All men published the praises of the young Conrad's government and extolled the wisdom of his judgments, the mercifulness of his sentences, and the modesty with which he bore himself in his great office. The old Duke soon gave everything into his hands, and sat apart and listened with proud satisfaction while his heir delivered the decrees of the crown from the seat of the premier. It seemed plain that one so loved and praised and honored of all men as Conrad was, could not be otherwise than happy. But strange enough, he was not. For he saw with dismay that the Princess Constance had begun to love him! The love of, the rest of the world was happy fortune for him, but this was freighted with danger! And he saw, moreover, that the delighted Duke had discovered his daughter's passion likewise, and was already dreaming of a marriage. Every day somewhat of the deep sadness that had been in the princess' face faded away; every day hope and animation beamed brighter from her eye; and by and by even vagrant smiles visited the face that had been so troubled.

Conrad was appalled. He bitterly cursed himself for having yielded to the instinct that had made him seek the companionship of one of his own sex when he was new and a stranger in the palace--when he was sorrowful and yearned for a sympathy such as only women can give or feel. He now began to avoid, his cousin. But this only made matters worse, for, naturally enough, the more he avoided her, the more she cast herself in his way. He marveled at this at first; and next it startled him. The girl haunted him; she hunted him; she happened upon him at all times and in all places, in the night as well as in the day. She seemed singularly anxious. There was surely a mystery somewhere.

This could not go on forever. All the world was talking about it. The Duke was beginning to look perplexed. Poor Conrad was becoming a very ghost through dread and dire distress. One day as he was emerging from a private ante-room attached to the picture gallery, Constance confronted him, and seizing both his hands, in hers, exclaimed:

"Oh, why, do you avoid me? What have I done--what have I said, to lose your kind opinion of me--for, surely I had it once? Conrad, do not despise me, but pity a tortured heart? I cannot,--cannot hold the words unspoken longer, lest they kill me--I LOVE you, CONRAD! There, despise me if you must, but they would be uttered!"

Conrad was speechless. Constance hesitated a moment, and then, misinterpreting his silence, a wild gladness flamed in her eyes, and she flung her arms about his neck and said:

"You relent! you relent! You can love me--you will love me! Oh, say you will, my own, my worshipped Conrad!'"

"Conrad groaned aloud. A sickly pallor overspread his countenance, and he trembled like an aspen. Presently, in desperation, he thrust the poor girl from him, and cried:

"You know not what you ask! It is forever and ever impossible!" And then he fled like a criminal and left the princess stupefied with amazement. A minute afterward she was crying and sobbing there, and Conrad was crying and sobbing in his chamber. Both were in despair. Both save ruin staring them in the face.

By and by Constance rose slowly to her feet and moved away, saying:

"To think that he was despising my love at the very moment that I thought it was melting his cruel heart! I hate him! He spurned me--did this man--he spurned me from him like a dog!"

CHAPTER IV. THE AWFUL REVELATION.

Time passed on. A settled sadness rested once more upon the countenance of the good Duke's daughter. She and Conrad were seen together no more now. The Duke grieved at this. But as the weeks wore away, Conrad's color came back to his cheeks and his old-time vivacity to his eye, and he administered the government with a clear and steadily ripening wisdom.

Presently a strange whisper began to be heard about the palace. It grew louder; it spread farther. The gossips of the city got hold-of it. It swept the dukedom. And this is what the whisper said:

"The Lady Constance hath given birth to a child!"

When the lord of Klugenstein heard it, he swung his plumed helmet thrice around his head and shouted:

"Long live. Duke Conrad!--for lo, his crown is sure, from this day forward! Detzin has done his errand well, and the good scoundrel shall be rewarded!"

And he spread, the tidings far and wide, and for eight-and-forty hours no soul in all the barony but did dance and sing, carouse and illuminate, to celebrate the great event, and all at proud and happy old Klugenstein's expense.

CHAPTER V. THE FRIGHTFUL CATASTROPHE.

The trial was at hand. All the great lords and barons of Brandenburgh were assembled in the Hall of Justice in the ducal palace. No space was left unoccupied where there was room for a spectator to stand or sit. Conrad, clad in purple and ermine, sat in the premier's chair, and on either side sat the great judges of the realm. The old Duke had sternly commanded that the trial of his daughter should proceed, without favor, and then had taken to his bed broken-hearted. His days were numbered. Poor Conrad had begged, as for his very life, that he might be spared the misery of sitting in judgment upon his cousin's crime, but it did not avail.

The saddest heart in all that great assemblage was in Conrad's breast.

The gladdest was in his father's. For, unknown to his daughter "Conrad," the old Baron Klugenstein was come, and was among the crowd of nobles, triumphant in the swelling fortunes of his house.

After the heralds had made due proclamation and the other preliminaries had followed, the venerable Lord Chief justice said:

"Prisoner, stand forth!"

The unhappy princess rose and stood unveiled before the vast multitude. The Lord Chief Justice continued:

"Most noble lady, before the great judges of this realm it hath been charged and proven that out of holy wedlock your Grace hath given birth unto a child; and by our ancient law the penalty is death, excepting in one sole contingency, whereof his Grace the acting Duke, our good Lord Conrad, will advertise you in his solemn sentence now; wherefore, give heed."

Conrad stretched forth the reluctant sceptre, and in the self-same moment the womanly heart beneath his robe yearned pityingly toward the doomed prisoner, and the tears came into his eyes. He opened his lips to speak, but the Lord Chief Justice said quickly:

"Not there, your Grace, not there! It is not lawful to pronounce judgment upon any of the ducal line SAVE FROM THE DUCAL THRONE!"

A shudder went to the heart of poor Conrad, and a tremor shook the iron frame of his old father likewise. CONRAD HAD NOT BEEN CROWNED--dared he profane the throne? He hesitated and turned pale with fear. But it must be done. Wondering eyes were already upon him. They would be suspicious eyes if he hesitated longer. He ascended the throne. Presently he stretched forth the sceptre again, and said:

"Prisoner, in the name of our sovereign lord, Ulrich, Duke of Brandenburgh, I proceed to the solemn duty that hath devolved upon me. Give heed to my words. By the ancient law of the land, except you produce the partner of your guilt and deliver him up to the executioner, you must surely die. Embrace this opportunity--save yourself while yet you may. Name the father of your child!"

A solemn hush fell upon the great court--a silence so profound that men could hear their own hearts beat. Then the princess slowly turned, with eyes gleaming with hate, and pointing her finger straight at Conrad, said:

"Thou art the man!"

An appalling conviction of his helpless, hopeless peril struck a chill to Conrad's heart like the chill of death itself. What power on earth could save him! To disprove the charge, he must reveal that he was a woman; and for an uncrowned woman to sit in the ducal chair was death! At one and the same moment, he and his grim old father swooned and fell to, the ground.

[The remainder of this thrilling and eventful story will NOT be found in this or any other publication, either now or at any future time.]

The truth is, I have got my hero (or heroine) into such a particularly close place, that I do not see how I am ever going to get him (or her) out of it again--and therefore I will wash my hands of the whole business, and leave that person to get out the best way that offers--or else stay there. I thought it was going to be easy enough to straighten out that little difficulty, but it looks different now.

Mark Twain Books at Amazon

 

 About the Author 

Samuel Langhorne Clemens (November 30, 1835 – April 21, 1910), known by his pen name Mark Twain, was an American writer, humorist, entrepreneur, publisher, and lecturer. He was praised as the "greatest humorist the United States has produced", and William Faulkner called him "the father of American literature". His novels include The Adventures of Tom Sawyer (1876) and its sequel, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (1884), the latter of which has often been called the "Great American Novel". Twain also wrote A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court (1889) and Pudd'nhead Wilson (1894), and co-wrote The Gilded Age: A Tale of Today (1873) with Charles Dudley Warner. Wikipedia

 Born: Samuel Langhorne Clemens; November 30, 1835; Florida, Missouri, U.S
Died: April 21, 1910 (aged 74); Stormfield House, Redding, Connecticut, U.S
Parents: John Marshall Clemens (father); Jane Lampton Clemens (mother)
Children: 4, including Susy, Clara, and Jean

 Mark Twain Books at Amazon

 

 

 

Between the Lines: Navigating the Spaces in Stories

 

 By Olivia Salter

 

When writers refer to "white space," they're talking about the empty areas on a page where there are no words. Here's why it matters:
 

1. Readability: White space draws attention to the words, making the text easier to read and improving comprehension.
2. Visual Comfort: It gives readers a sense of structure and hierarchy, helping them interpret the content more effectively.

In fiction, paragraph breaks create white space, guiding readers through the story and enhancing their experience. So, think of white space as a writer's way of signaling turns and pacing in the narrative!

The Killers by Ernest Hemingway

 

THE KILLERS

Ernest Hemingway

(PDF)

The door of Henry's lunchroom opened and two men came in. They sat down at the counter.

"What's yours?" George asked them.

"I don't know," one of the men said. "What do you want to eat, Al?"

"I don't know," said Al. "I don't know what I want to eat."

Outside it was getting dark. The street-light came on outside the window. The two men at the counter read the menu. From the other end of the counter Nick Adams watched them. He had been talking to George when they came in.

"I'll have a roast pork tenderloin with apple sauce and mashed potatoes," the first man said.

"It isn't ready yet."

"What the hell do you put it on the card for?"

"That's the dinner," George explained. "You can get that at six o'clock."

George looked at the clock on the wall behind the counter.

"It's five o'clock."

"The clock says twenty minutes past five," the second man said.

"It's twenty minutes fast."

"Oh, to hell with the clock," the first man said. "What have you got to eat?"

"I can give you any kind of sandwiches," George said. "You can have ham and eggs, bacon and eggs, liver and bacon, or a steak."

"Give me chicken croquettes with green peas and cream sauce and mashed potatoes."

"That's the dinner."

"Everything we want's the dinner, eh? That's the way you work it."

"I can give you ham and eggs, bacon and eggs, liver..."

"I'll take ham and eggs," the man called Al said. He wore a derby hat and a black overcoat buttoned across the chest. His face was small and white and he had tight lips. He wore a silk muffler and gloves.

"Give me bacon and eggs," said the other man. He was about the same size as Al. Their faces were different, but they were dressed like twins. Both wore overcoats too tight for them. They sat leaning forward, their elbows on the counter.

"Got anything to drink?" Al asked.

"Silver beer, bevo, ginger-ale," George said.

"I mean you got anything to drink?"

"Just those I said."

"This is a hot town," said the other. "What do they call it?"

"Summit."

"Ever hear of it?" Al asked his friend.

"No," said the friend.

"What do you do here nights?" Al asked.

"They eat the dinner," his friend said. "They all come here and eat the big dinner."

"That's right," George said.

"So you think that's right?" Al asked George.

"Sure."

"You're a pretty bright boy, aren't you?"

"Sure," said George.

"Well, you're not," said the other little man. "Is he, Al?"

"He's dumb," said Al. He turned to Nick. "What's your name?"

"Adams."

"Another bright boy," Al said. "Ain't he a bright boy, Max?"

"The town's full of bright boys," Max said.

George put the two platters, one of ham and eggs, the other of bacon and eggs, on the counter. He set down two side-dishes of fried potatoes and closed the wicket into the kitchen.

"Which is yours?" he asked Al.

"Don't you remember?"

"Ham and eggs."

"Just a bright boy," Max said. He leaned forward and took the ham and eggs. Both men ate with their gloves on. George watched them eat.

"What are you looking at?" Max looked at George.

"Nothing."

"The hell you were. You were looking at me."

"Maybe the boy meant it for a joke, Max," Al said.

George laughed.

"You don't have to laugh," Max said to him. "You don't have to laugh at all, see?"

"All right," said George.

"So he thinks it's all right." Max turned to Al. "He thinks it's all right. That's a good one."

"Oh, he's a thinker," Al said. They went on eating.

"What's the bright boy's name down the counter?" Al asked Max.

"Hey, bright boy," Max said to Nick. "You go around on the other side of the counter with your boy friend."

"What's the idea?" Nick asked.

"There isn't any idea."

"You better go around, bright boy," Al said. Nick went around behind the counter.

"What's the idea?" George asked.

"None of your damn business," Al said. "Who's out in the kitchen?"

"The nigger."

"What do you mean the nigger?"

"The nigger that cooks."

"Tell him to come in."

"What's the idea?"

"Tell him to come in."

"Where do you think you are?"

"We know damn well where we are," the man called Max said. "Do we look silly?"

"You talk silly," Al said to him. "What the hell do you argue with this kid for? Listen," he said to George, "tell the nigger to come out here."

"What are you going to do to him?"

"Nothing. Use your head, bright boy. What would we do to a nigger?"

George opened the slit that opened back into the kitchen. "Sam," he called. "Come in here a minute."

The door to the kitchen opened and the nigger came in. "What was it?" he asked. The two men at the counter took a look at him.

"All right, nigger. You stand right there," Al said.

Sam, the nigger, standing in his apron, looked at the two men sitting at the counter. "Yes, sir," he said. Al got down from his stool.

"I'm going back to the kitchen with the nigger and bright boy," he said. "Go on back to the kitchen, nigger. You go with him, bright boy." The little man walked after Nick and Sam, the cook, back into the kitchen. The door shut after them. The man called Max sat at the counter opposite George. He didn't look at George but looked in the mirror that ran along back of the counter. Henry's had been made over from a saloon into a lunch counter.

"Well, bright boy," Max said, looking into the mirror, "why don't you say something?"

"What's it all about?"

"Hey, Al," Max called, "bright boy wants to know what it's all about."

"Why don't you tell him?" Al's voice came from the kitchen.

"What do you think it's all about?"

"I don't know."

"What do you think?"

Max looked into the mirror all the time he was talking.

"I wouldn't say."

"Hey, Al, bright boy says he wouldn't say what he thinks it's all about."

"I can hear you, all right," Al said from the kitchen. He had propped open the slit that dishes passed through into the kitchen with a catsup bottle. "Listen, bright boy," he said from the kitchen to George. "Stand a little further along the bar. You move a little to the left, Max." He was like a photographer arranging for a group picture.

"Talk to me, bright boy," Max said. "What do you think's going to happen?"

George did not say anything.

"I'll tell you," Max said. "We're going to kill a Swede. Do you know a big Swede named Ole Andreson?"

"Yes."

"He comes here to eat every night, don't he?"

"Sometimes he comes here."

"He comes here at six o'clock, don't he?"

"If he comes."

"We know all that, bright boy," Max said. "Talk about something else. Ever go to the movies?"

"Once in a while."

"You ought to go to the movies more. The movies are fine for a bright boy like you."

"What are you going to kill Ole Andreson for? What did he ever do to you?"

"He never had a chance to do anything to us. He never even seen us."

"And he's only going to see us once," Al said from the kitchen.

"What are you going to kill him for, then?" George asked.

"We're killing him for a friend. Just to oblige a friend, bright boy."

"Shut up," said Al from the kitchen. "You talk too goddam much."

"Well, I got to keep bright boy amused. Don't I, bright boy?"

"You talk too damn much," Al said. "The nigger and my bright boy are amused by themselves. I got them tied up like a couple of girl friends in the convent."

"I suppose you were in a convent."

"You never know."

"You were in a kosher convent. That's where you were."

George looked up at the clock.

"If anybody comes in you tell them the cook is off, and if they keep after it, you tell them you'll go back and cook yourself. Do you get that, bright boy?"

"All right," George said. "What you going to do with us afterward?"

"That'll depend," Max said. "That's one of those things you never know at the time."

George looked up at the clock. It was a quarter past six. The door from the street opened. A street-car motorman came in.

"Hello, George," he said. "Can I get supper?"

"Sam's gone out," George said. "He'll be back in about half an hour."

"I'd better go up the street," the motorman said. George looked at the clock. It was twenty minutes past six.

"That was nice, bright boy," Max said. "You're a regular little gentleman."

"He knew I'd blow his head off," Al said from the kitchen.

"No," said Max. "It ain't that. Bright boy is nice. He's a nice boy. I like him."

At six-fifty-five George said: "He's not coming."

Two other people had been in the lunch-room. Once George had gone out to the kitchen and made a ham-and-egg sandwich "to go" that a man wanted to take with him. Inside the kitchen he saw Al, his derby hat tipped back, sitting on a stool beside the wicket with the muzzle of a sawed-off shotgun resting on the ledge. Nick and the cook were back to back in the corner, a towel tied in each of their mouths. George had cooked the sandwich, wrapped it up in oiled paper, put it in a bag, brought it in, and the man had paid for it and gone out.

"Bright boy can do everything," Max said. "He can cook and everything. You'd make some girl a nice wife, bright boy."

"Yes?" George said. "Your friend, Ole Andreson, isn't going to come."

"We'll give him ten minutes," Max said.

Max watched the mirror and the clock. The hands of the clock marked seven o'clock, and then five minutes past seven.

"Come on, Al," said Max. "We better go. He's not coming."

"Better give him five minutes," Al said from the kitchen.

In the five minutes a man came in, and George explained that the cook was sick.

"Why the hell don't you get another cook?" the man asked. "Aren't you running a lunch-counter?" He went out.

"Come on, Al," Max said.

"What about the two bright boys and the nigger?"

"They're all right."

"You think so?"

"Sure. We're through with it."

"I don't like it," said Al. "It's sloppy. You talk too much."

"Oh, what the hell," said Max. "We got to keep amused, haven't we?"

"You talk too much, all the same," Al said. He came out from the kitchen. The cut-off barrels of the shotgun made a slight bulge under the waist of his too tight-fitting overcoat. He straightened his coat with his gloved hands.

"So long, bright boy," he said to George. "You got a lot of luck."

"That's the truth," Max said. "You ought to play the races, bright boy."

The two of them went out the door. George watched them, through the window, pass under the arc-light and across the street. In their tight overcoats and derby hats they looked like a vaudeville team. George went back through the swinging door into the kitchen and untied Nick and the cook.

"I don't want any more of that," said Sam, the cook. "I don't want any more of that."

Nick stood up. He had never had a towel in his mouth before.

"Say," he said. "What the hell?" He was trying to swagger it off.

"They were going to kill Ole Andreson," George said. "They were going to shoot him when he came in to eat."

"Ole Andreson?"

"Sure."

The cook felt the corners of his mouth with his thumbs.

"They all gone?" he asked.

"Yeah," said George. "They're gone now."

"I don't like it," said the cook. "I don't like any of it at all."

"Listen," George said to Nick. "You better go see Ole Andreson."

"All right."

"You better not have anything to do with it at all," Sam, the cook, said. "You better stay way out of it."

"Don't go if you don't want to," George said.

"Mixing up in this ain't going to get you anywhere," the cook said. "You stay out of it."

"I'll go see him," Nick said to George. "Where does he live?"

The cook turned away.

"Little boys always know what they want to do," he said.

"He lives up at Hirsch's rooming-house," George said to Nick.

"I'll go up there."

Outside the arc-light shone through the bare branches of a tree. Nick walked up the street beside the car-tracks and turned at the next arc-light down a side-street. Three houses up the street was Hirsch's rooming-house. Nick walked up the two steps and pushed the bell. A woman came to the door.

"Is Ole Andreson here?"

"Do you want to see him?"

"Yes, if he's in."

Nick followed the woman up a flight of stairs and back to the end of a corridor. She knocked on the door.

"Who is it?"

"It's somebody to see you, Mr. Andreson," the woman said.

"It's Nick Adams."

"Come in."

Nick opened the door and went into the room. Ole Andreson was lying on the bed with all his clothes on. He had been a heavyweight prize-fighter and he was too long for the bed. He lay with his head on two pillows. He did not look at Nick.

"What was it?" he asked.

"I was up at Henry's," Nick said, "and two fellows came in and tied up me and the cook, and they said they were going to kill you."

It sounded silly when he said it. Ole Andreson said nothing.

"They put us out in the kitchen," Nick went on. "They were going to shoot you when you came in to supper."

Ole Andreson looked at the wall and did not say anything.

"George thought I better come and tell you about it."

"There isn't anything I can do about it," Ole Andreson said.

"I'll tell you what they were like."

"I don't want to know what they were like," Ole Andreson said. He looked at the wall. "Thanks for coming to tell me about it."

"That's all right."

Nick looked at the big man lying on the bed.

"Don't you want me to go and see the police?"

"No," Ole Andreson said. "That wouldn't do any good."

"Isn't there something I could do?"

"No. There ain't anything to do."

"Maybe it was just a bluff."

"No. It ain't just a bluff."

Ole Andreson rolled over toward the wall.

"The only thing is," he said, talking toward the wall, "I just can't make up my mind to go out. I been in here all day."

"Couldn't you get out of town?"

"No," Ole Andreson said. "I'm through with all that running around."

He looked at the wall.

"There ain't anything to do now."

"Couldn't you fix it up some way?"

"No. I got in wrong." He talked in the same flat voice. "There ain't anything to do. After a while I'll make up my mind to go out."

"I better go back and see George," Nick said.

"So long," said Ole Andreson. He did not look toward Nick. "Thanks for coming around."

Nick went out. As he shut the door he saw Ole Andreson with all his clothes on, lying on the bed looking at the wall.

"He's been in his room all day," the landlady said downstairs. "I guess he don't feel well. I said to him: 'Mr. Andreson, you ought to go out and take a walk on a nice fall day like this,' but he didn't feel like it."

"He doesn't want to go out."

"I'm sorry he don't feel well," the woman said. "He's an awfully nice man. He was in the ring, you know."

"I know it."

"You'd never know it except from the way his face is," the woman said. They stood talking just inside the street door. "He's just as gentle."

"Well, good-night, Mrs. Hirsch," Nick said.

"I'm not Mrs. Hirsch," the woman said. "She owns the place. I just look after it for her. I'm Mrs. Bell."

"Well, good-night, Mrs. Bell," Nick said.

"Good-night," the woman said.

Nick walked up the dark street to the corner under the arc-light, and then along the car-tracks to Henry's eating-house. George was inside, back of the counter.

"Did you see Ole?"

"Yes," said Nick. "He's in his room and he won't go out."

The cook opened the door from the kitchen when he heard Nick's voice.

"I don't even listen to it," he said and shut the door.

"Did you tell him about it?" George asked.

"Sure. I told him but he knows what it's all about."

"What's he going to do?"

"Nothing."

"They'll kill him."

"I guess they will."

"He must have got mixed up in something in Chicago."

"I guess so," said Nick.

"It's a hell of a thing."

"It's an awful thing," Nick said.

They did not say anything. George reached down for a towel and wiped the counter.

"I wonder what he did?" Nick said.

"Double-crossed somebody. That's what they kill them for."

"I'm going to get out of this town," Nick said.

"Yes," said George. "That's a good thing to do."

"I can't stand to think about him waiting in the room and knowing he's going to get it. It's too damned awful."

"Well," said George, "you better not think about it."

About the Author 

Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald (1896 - 1940), better known as F. Scott Fitzgerald, was an American author of novels and short stories, born in St. Paul, Minnesota, and raised in an Irish middle class family. He is best known for his masterpiece, The Great Gatsby and Tender Is the Night.

The author was named after his famous second cousin, Francis Scott Key, who penned The Star Spangled Banner.

Fitzgerald's prolific short stories tend to center around the promise of youth, followed by the effects of age and despair. Fitzgerald was considered one of the best authors of the twentieth century, a leading voice for the "Lost Generation" of the 1920s and the Jazz Age.

F. Scott Fitzgerald spent a great deal of his youth in Buffalo, New York, then moved to New Jersey to attend Princeton University. Fitzgerald dropped out and enlisted in the U.S. Army in 1917 on the brink of World War I, but did not see combat. He became an officer, married, and after being decommissioned, went to New York City to pursue his literary career. This Side of Paradise was his first successful novel, allowing him to travel extensively in Paris and the French Riviera in the 1920s, creating the backdrop for his most widely-acclaimed work, The Great Gatsby which was published in 1925. He befriended great authors such as Ernest Hemingway during this period. Fitzgerald contributed stories to The Saturday Evening Post for most of his career. The first story in which his name appeared on the cover was Bernice Bobs Her Hair (1920).

Fitzgerald was in poor health after spending most of his adulthood abusing alcohol and suffered three heart attacks. He died at the age of 44 in 1941.

👉Buy F Scott Fitzgerald Books at Amazon

 

Inspiring Quotes About Writing

Here are inspiring quotes about writing from famous authors to fuel your creativity:

1. Stephen King: “If you don’t have time to read, you don’t have the time (or the tools) to write.”
2. Annie Proulx: “You should write because you love the shape of stories and sentences and the creation of different words on a page. Writing comes from reading, and reading is the finest teacher of how to write.”
3. Eudora Welty: “Indeed, learning to write may be part of learning to read. For all I know, writing comes out of a superior devotion to reading.”
4. William Faulkner: “Read everything — trash, classics, good and bad, and see how they do it. Just like a carpenter who works as an apprentice and studies the master. Read! You’ll absorb it. Then write. If it’s good, you’ll find out. If it’s not, throw it out of the window.”
5. Robert Louis Stevenson: “I kept always two books in my pocket: one to read, one to write in.”
6. Ernest Gaines: “The Six Golden Rules of Writing: Read, read, read, and write, write, write.”
7. Samuel Johnson: “The greatest part of a writer’s time is spent in reading, in order to write; a man will turn over half a library to make one book.”
8. Lisa See: “Read a thousand books, and your words will flow like a river.”
9. Mary B. W. Tabor: “One sure window into a person’s soul is his reading list.”

Remember, inspiration often lies just around the corner of life. 

Happy writing!