Palm Tree Island

Herbert Strang

Description

Set sail for high-seas adventure in this rollicking tale from renowned juvenile fiction scribe "Herbert Strang," which was actually the pseudonym adopted by a pair of enterprising English authors whose work came to represent the gold standard for fiction geared toward young boys in the early twentieth century. Palm Tree Island is a thrilling tale that is sure to please readers young and old alike.

Sujets

• Children's

Informations

• Publié par: The Floating Press
• Date de parution: 01 juin 2012
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781775459958
• Langue: English

Extrait

PALM TREE ISLAND
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HERBERT STRANG
 
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Palm Tree Island First published in 1909 ISBN 978-1-77545-995-8 © 2012 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Chapter the First Chapter the Second Chapter the Third Chapter the Fourth Chapter the Fifth Chapter the Sixth Chapter the Seventh Chapter the Eighth Chapter the Ninth Chapter the Tenth Chapter the Eleventh Chapter the Twelfth Chapter the Thirteenth Chapter the Fourteenth Chapter the Fifteenth Chapter the Sixteenth Chapter the Seventeenth Chapter the Eighteenth Chapter the Nineteenth Chapter the Twentieth Chapter the Twenty-First Chapter the Twenty-Second Endnotes
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Palm Tree Island
Being the Narrative of Harry Brent Showing How He in Company with William Bobbin of Limehouse was Left on an Island in the SouthernHemisphere, and the Accidents and Adventures that Sprang Therefrom, theWhole Faithfully Set Forth
Chapter the First
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Of My Uncle and of His Conversations with Two Mariners
I was rising four years old when my parents died, both within one week,of the small-pox; and the day of their funeral is the furthermost of myrecollections. My nurse, having tied up the sleeves of my pinaforewith black, held me with her in the great room down-stairs as themourners assembled. Their solemn faces and whispered words, and thedreadful black garments, drove me into a state of terror, and I was notfar from screaming among them when there entered a big man with a jollyred face, at whom the company rose and bowed very respectfully. Themoment he was within the room his eye lit on me, and seeing at a glancehow matters stood, he thrust one hand into his great pocket, and drewit forth full of sugar-plums, which he laid in my pinafore, and thenbade the nurse take me away.
'Twas my uncle Stephen, said Nurse, and a kind good man. Certainly Iliked him well enough, and when, two or three days thereafter, he setme before him on his saddle, and rode away humming the rhyme of"Banbury Cross," I laughed very joyously, never believing but thatafter I had seen the lady with the tinkling toes, Uncle Stephen wouldbring me home again, and that by that time my mother would havereturned from heaven, whither they told me she had gone.
I did not see my childhood's home again for near thirty years.
My uncle took me to live with him, in his own house not a great wayfrom Stafford. He was an elder brother of my father's, and till thenhad been a bachelor; but having now a small nephew to nourish and breedup, he did not delay to seek a wife, and wed a fine young woman ofBurslem. She was very kind to me, and even when there were two boys ofher own to engage her affections, her kindness did not alter. So Igrew up in great happiness, having had few troubles, the greatest ofthem being, perhaps, those that beset my first steps to learning inDame Johnson's little school. As for my subsequent search afterknowledge on the benches of the Grammar School at Stafford, the lesssaid the better: the master once declared, in Latin, that I was "onlynot a fool."
The light esteem in which the pedagogue held my intellects did not givemy uncle any concern. He was bad at the books himself, saving in onekind I am to mention hereafter. He was a master potter, in asubstantial way of business, and held in some repute among men of histrade. Indeed, it was the belief of many in our parts that he mighthave become as famous in the world as Mr. Wedgwood himself, had he notbeen afflicted with a hobby.
I will not follow the example of the ingenious Mr. Sterne, and writehere a chapter upon hobby-horses; though I do believe I could saysomething on that subject, if not with his incomparable humour, yetwith a certain truth of observation. Why is a man's hobby often atsuch variance with other parts of his character? Why did the late Mr.Selwyn, to wit, take the greatest pleasure in life in seeing menhanged, drawn, and quartered? Who that knew John Steer (I knew himwell) only as he stood with knife and cleaver in his butcher's shop,would believe that 'twas his delight, after slaughtering his sheep andoxen, to solace his evenings with warbling on the German flute? Myuncle's hobby was no less extraordinary. He was inland bred, and I dobelieve, until the year of his great adventure, had never gone abovetwenty miles from his native town; yet he had a wondrous passion forthe sea and all that pertained to it. I am sure that he never saw thesea until he and I together looked upon it at Tilbury, and there, to besure, the salt water is much qualified with fresh; yet, after businesshours, he was for ever talking of it and reading about it and thedoings of sailor men. He would pore for long hours upon the pages ofthe Sailor's Waggoner , and con by heart the rules and instructions ofthe Sailor's Vade Mecum . He was deeply learned in the PrincipalNavigations of Mr. Hakluyt; he could tell you all that befell GeorgeCavendish in the Desire and Sir Richard Hawkins in the Dainty , andwould hold me spell-bound as he recited with infinite gusto the starkdoings of the Buccaneers. And when Mr. Cadell, the bookseller in theStrand in London, sent him the great volumes containing the discoveriesof Commodore Byron, and those gallant captains Carteret, Wallis, andCook in the southern hemisphere, the days were a weariness to him untilhe could light his candle and put on his spectacles and feast on thoseenthralling narratives. Many's the time, as I lay awake in my bed,have I heard my aunt Susan call down the stairs through the open doorof her room, "Steve, Steve, when be a-coming to bed, man?" and hisjolly voice rolling up, "Yes, my dear, I am near the end of thechapter"; and there he would sit, and finish the chapter, and beginanother, and read on and on, until I might be stirred from a doze bythe sound of him shuffling past in his stockings, and grumbling becausethere was but an inch of guttering candle left.
My uncle was a sturdy patriot, and took a great delight in knowing thatthe most of the navigators of those far-off seas were Englishmen. Iremember how he fumed and fretted when his bookseller in London senthim the volume of Monsieur de Bougainville's voyage round the world.What had these French apes, he cried, to do with voyages of discovery?And when he read later, in Dr. Hawkesworth's book, of the trick whichMonsieur de Bougainville played on Captain Wallis—how, meeting thecaptain on his homeward way, he sought with feigning to worm out of himthe secrets of his expedition—my uncle smote the table with his greatfist, and used such fiery language that my aunt turned pale and mylittle cousins began to blubber.
At this time I was in my seventeenth year, and had been for some monthsin my uncle's factory, learning the rudiments of his trade. 'Twastaken for granted that I should become a partner with him when I was ofage, for the business was good enough to support both me and my eldercousin Thomas; while as for the younger, James, my aunt had set herheart on making a parson of him. But it was ordained that, in my case,things should fall out quite contrary to the intention, as you shallhear.
One fine Sunday we were walking home from church, my uncle and I,across the fields, as our practice was, when we saw that the last stilebefore we reached our road was occupied. A big fellow, clad in a dressthat was strange to our part of the country, sat athwart the rail ofthe fence, with his feet on the upper step. Another man sprawled onthe grass beside the fence, lying stretched on his back with his handsunder his head, and a hat of black glazed straw tilted over his eyes.As we drew nearer, I saw that the man on the stile had a big fat face,his red cheeks so puffed out that his eyes were scarce visible, hismouth loose and watery, with an underhung chin, a thick fringe of blackhair encircling it from ear to ear.
Seeing us approach, he began with uncouth and clumsy movements todescend from his perch; but he gave my uncle a hard look as we came upwith him, and then, spitting upon the ground, he said,
"Bless my eyes—surely 'tis—ain't your name Stephen Brent, sir?"
My uncle looked at the man in the way of one who is puzzled, and forsome while stood thus, the man smiling at him. Then of a sudden hisface partly cleared, and he said—
"You are never Nick Wabberley?"
"The same, sir, Nick and Wabberley, as you knowed five and twenty yearago."
"Why, man, I am glad to see you," says my uncle heartily, offering hishand, which the man took, not however before he had rubbed his own handupon the back of his breeches.
"Same to you, sir, and very glad I am to see you so hearty. After fiveand twenty year at sea—"
"You have been to sea!" cries my uncle, his jolly face beaming. "Thenyou must come up to my house to supper and tell me all about it."
"Why, d'ye see, sir, there's my messmate," said the man, with a glanceat the prone figure, which had not moved; indeed, there came frombeneath the hat a succession of snores, as untuneful as ever I heard."We're in tow, d'ye see," added the big man.
"Bring him too," says my uncle. "We have plenty of bread and bacon,thank God."
Whereupon the man went to his sleeping comrade, and neatly kicked hishat into the air, bidding him wake, with a strange oath that startledme. The sleeper did not at once open his eyes, but his mouth beingalready open, he let forth a volley of curses, and demanded his hat,avouching that if he suffered a sunstroke he would "this" and "that"the other: his a