DOYLE, Arthur Conan - A Straggler of '15

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A STRAGGLER OF ‘15

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A Straggler of '15

By A. Conan Doyle

Get any book for free on: www.Abika.com

A STRAGGLER OF ‘15

Get any book for free on: www.Abika.com

A Straggler of '15

by A. Conan Doyle

First published: Black and White, 21 March 1891 with three illustrations by W.B. Wollen

(U.S.) Harper’s Weekly, 21 March 1891

It was a dull October morning, and heavy, rolling fog-wreaths lay low over the wet, grey roofs of

the Woolwich houses. Down in the long, brick-lined streets all was sodden and greasy and

cheerless. From the high buildings of the Arsenal came the whir of many wheels, the thudding of

weights, and the buzz and babel of human toil. Beyond, the dwellings of the working-men,

smoke-stained and unlovely, radiated away in a lessening perspective of narrowing road and

dwindling wall.

There were few folk in the streets, for the toilers had all been absorbed since break of day by the

huge, smoke-spouting monster, which sucked in the manhood of the town, to belch it forth,

weary and work-stained, every night. Stout women, with thick red arms, and dirty aprons, stood

upon the whitened doorsteps, leaning upon their brooms, and shrieking their morning greetings

across the road. One had gathered a small knot of cronies around her, and was talking

energetically, with little shrill titters from her audience to punctuate her remarks.

"Old enough to know better!" she cried, in answer to an exclamation from one of the listeners.

"Why, 'ow old is he at all? Blessed if I could ever make out."

"Well, it ain't so hard to reckon," said a sharp-featured, pale-faced woman, with watery-blue

eyes. "He's been at the battle o' Waterloo, and has the pension and medal to prove it."

"That were a ter'ble long time agone," remarked a third. "It were afore I were born."

"It were fifteen year after the beginnin' of the century," cried a younger woman, who had stood

leaning against the wall, with a smile of superior knowledge upon her face. "My Bill was a-

saying so last Sabbath, when I spoke to him o' old Daddy Brewster, here."

"And suppose he spoke truth, Missus Simpson, 'ow long agone do that make it?"

"It's eighty-one now," said the original speaker, checking off the years upon her coarse, red

fingers, "and that were fifteen. Ten, and ten, and ten, and ten, and ten — why, it's only sixty and

six year, so he ain't so old after all."

"But he weren't a new-born babe at the battle, silly," cried the young woman, with a chuckle.

"S'pose he were only twenty, then he couldn't be less than six-and-eighty now, at the lowest."

"Ay, he's that —every day of it," cried several.

A STRAGGLER OF ‘15

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"I've had 'bout enough of it," remarked the large woman gloomily. "Unless his young niece, or

grand-niece, or whatever she is, come to-day, I'm off; and he can find someone else to do his

work. Your own 'ome first, says I."

"Ain't he quiet, then, Missus Simpson?" asked the youngest of the group.

"Listen to him now," she answered, with her hand half raised, and her head turned slantwise

towards the open door. From the upper floor came a shuffling, sliding sound, with a sharp

tapping of a stick. "There he go back and forrards doing what he call his sentry-go. 'Arf the night

through he's at that game, the silly old juggins. At six o'clock this very mornin' there he was

beatin' with a stick at my door. `Turn out guard,' he cried, and a lot more jargon that I could

make nothing of. Then what with his coughin' and 'awkin' and spittin', there ain't no gettin' a

wink o' sleep. Hark to him now!"

"Missus Simpson! Missus Simpson!" cried a cracked and querulous voice from above.

"That's him," she cried, nodding her head with an air of triumph. "He do go on somethin'

scandalous. Yes, Mister Brewster, sir."

"I want my morning ration, Missus Simpson."

"It's just ready, Mister Brewster, sir."

"Blessed if he ain't like a baby cryin' for its pap," said the young woman.

"I feel as if I could shake his old bones up sometimes," cried Mrs. Simpson, viciously. "But

who's for a 'arf of fourpenny?"

The whole company were about to shuffle off to the public-house, when a young girl stepped

across the road and touched the housekeeper timidly upon the arm. "I think that is No. 56

Arsenal View," she said. "Can you tell me if Mr. Brewster lives here?"

The housekeeper looked critically at the newcomer. She was a girl of about twenty, broad faced

and comely, with a turned-up nose, and large, honest, grey eyes. Her print dress, her straw hat

with its bunch of glaring poppies, and the bundle which she carried had all a smack of the

country.

"You're Norah Brewster, I s'pose," said Mrs. Simpson, eyeing her up and down with no friendly

gaze.

"Yes; I've come to look after my grand-uncle Gregory."

"And a good job, too," cried the housekeeper, with a toss of her head. "It's about time that some

of his own folk took a turn at it, for I've had enough of it. There you are, young woman! in you

go, and make yourself at home. There's tea in the caddy and bacon on the dresser, and the old

man will be about you if you don't fetch him his breakfast. I'll send for my things in the evenin'."

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摘要：

ASTRAGGLEROF‘15Getanybookforfreeon:www.Abika.com1AStragglerof'15ByA.ConanDoyleGetanybookforfreeon:www.Abika.comASTRAGGLEROF‘15Getanybookforfreeon:www.Abika.com2AStragglerof'15byA.ConanDoyleFirstpublished:BlackandWhite,21March1891withthreeillustrationsbyW.B.Wollen(U.S.)Harper’sWeekly,21March1891Itwas...

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