Another Day

Jeffery Farnol

Description

Another Day is atypical of Farnol's work, it's a Jazz Age romantic thriller/mystery featuring a wealthy young American believing himself guilty of murder and fleeing to England.  Keith Dallas Chisholm, a young American believing that he is guilty of killing the man he hated, has fled from New York to England where he encounters a very small but friendly damsel.

Sujets

• Romance historique
• 20th Century
• Historical
• Romance
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Rare Treasure Editions
• Date de parution: 08 novembre 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781774643624
• Langue: English

Extrait

Another Day
by Jeffery Farnol

First published in 1929
This edition published by Rare Treasures
Victoria, BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany
[e-mail]
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except in the case of excerpts by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

Another Day



by JEFFERY FARNOL

To
ERNEST V. CHANDLER
MY TRUSTY FRIEND
I DEDICATE THIS BOOK

CHAPTER I Describes a Meeting of Import
This narrative should begin with the death-sob of RedRory as the murderous bullet smote him from life; itshould continue with the sick awaking of young Keith,Dallas, Chisholm in a certain evil haunt of Hell’sKitchen, New York City, to find himself staring into ahated face, seen as it were through a swirling mist, aghastly face—grey, dead, blood-smeared, and beneathhis own lax fingers a revolver, while with throbbing brainand mind a very chaos of horror he strove desperately tothink back . . . dispel this dreadful mist that benumbedhis every faculty . . . to remember. . . .
But:
This narrative really opens with song of a lark carollingjoyously in the sunny air high over a certain nobleswell of the Sussex Downs whereon lay young Keith,Dallas, Chisholm flat on his back, a dusty, travel-wornfigure, gazing up at the soaring bird with such wistful,haggard eyes. Sitting up wearily at last, he glanced downat the crumpled letter in his fingers, a large sheet ofthick notepaper bearing neither date nor address butthese words in bold, hasty scrawl:

“There are sins I can forgive and have forgivenyou, but murder is not one of them. Your allowanceshall be paid as usual so long as you keep clear of theStates and forget you were ever the son of
“ Wilbur I. Chisholm .”
“And that’s—that!” sighed the outcast. “It’s roughon the poor old Dad, yes—it’s certainly mightytough . . . !” And presently, crumpling the letter inquivering fingers, he struck a match, lighted the paperand, sighing dismally, watched it burn.
“Ooh—a bun-fire!” cried a gleeful voice, andglancing swiftly up and around, he saw a very smalldamsel scrambling towards him down the grassy slope.Mutely he stared at this child with his troublous, long-lashedgrey eyes and she at him with eyes very wide,brown, and critical.
“Good afternoon, man!” said she, demurely.
“Hello—girlie!” he answered, gently.
“But aren’t you going to make a bun-fire, please?”
“Why no,” he replied, almost apologetically andsmiled, whereat she smiled also and in manner so friendlythat he felt strangely comforted, and reached out as ifto touch her bright hair, then hesitated, stared at hishand with dilating eyes, clenched it suddenly and let itfall. The child came nearer.
“Yesterday,” she announced, “our cat ’Blinda foundthree teeny-weeny kittens in our Sarah’s work-box!”
“You don’t say?”
“Yes I do, man. And Sarah was dreffle cross, an’ saiddrattem, she’d drownem. So I said she was a beast, an’ soshe is. Sometimes I can’t ’bide our Sarah. Then AuntJemima, that isn’t our real aunt, you know, sent me tobed and no tea—not a scrinch only my sister Jobrought me some an’ jam too, an’ kissed me. Jo’s nicethough she is all growed up. An’ she’s going to let mehave one of the weeny kittens for my own self—yousee she likes me, Jo does, though I am troublesome—abit.”
“Sure she does, girlie. But what are you doing outhere all alone?”
“Well,” she answered, sitting down beside him and arrangingthe somewhat shaggy bunch of cowslips shehad gathered, “I’m looking about for a rich husbant.”
“Gee-whiz!” he murmured, staring into the demurelittle face. “You’ve sure started mighty early!”
“Oh yes,” she sighed, “hours an’ hours ago, but Ihaven’t found any yet, there don’t seem many about onthe Downs to-day, though I’ve looked an’ looked.”
“Well, well!” said he, opening his grey eyes a littlewider. “Now what d’you know about that!”
“Only what our Aunt Jemima said this morning—shesaid: ‘Someday we must find Patience a rich husbant,’an’ I’m Patience so I came out to find one for myownself. You see I’m nearly growed into eight.”
“And—are you named Patience, really and truly?”
“I are, man. Though our Sarah says mother shouldhave put an ’im’ in front, ’cause I’se so impatient.”
“And what does your mother say?”
“She can’t say anything now, man, ’cause she’s aholy angel.”
“Oh!” he murmured, “So is mine,” and he turned tostare down and away across the wide valley where villageand hamlet nestled amid the green of bowery trees.
“An’ now, man, please what’s your name?”
“Well folks call me . . . you can call me . . . Dallas,Dal, for short.”
“But you’re awful’ long, you know!” she answered,pointing at his dusty legs. “But I like your face, ’speciallywhen you smile.”
“Do you, Honey, do you?” he inquired with a strangeeagerness. “Honest and true, Hon, do you?”
“Oh yes,” she nodded. “Are you a rich man?”
“Why no . . . no I’m afraid not—”
“No, I was ’fraid not,” she sighed, glancing at hisshabby person. “Your hat’s not a rich man’s hat—noryour boots. But if you could only grow yourselfrich you’d do an’ then I’d marry you an’ have a motorcarlike Mr. Meredith, an’ give Jo a ride in it if she’haved herself an’ was p’lite to me.”
“Jo?” he repeated. “That sounds a kind of prettyname to me, Honey.”
“Well her reel name’s Josepha an’ she’s quite growedup, with red hair—bobbed you know, and keeps beesan’ they stung me once oh triffic! But I love honey, onlyshe sells it nearly all. And Aunt Jemima says bees arespiteful beasts, an’ so they are. An’ she keeps chickenstoo—lots an’ lots, only it’s been such a drefful badseason for eggs.”
“Josepha!” he murmured. “That sure is a dandyname, Honey, as pretty as your own. And where doyou live?”
“Oh miles an’ miles—triffic!” answered the SmallDamsel stabbing slim finger towards the wide valley below.“There, behind those trees, the thatched cottage.You can’t see it, but it’s there. And nobody ever calledme ‘Honey’ before. Why do you call me honey, please?”
“Well it’s just an American love-name.”
“Well, I like it better than Patience or Pat or Patty,an’ I simply ’dore honey!”
“Then won’t you please call me ‘Dal’—just once?”he pleaded, with look and tone so wistful that she edgednearer, and proffered him three wilting cowslips.
“Why do your eyes look so big an’—weepy?” shedemanded.
“Do they, Hon?” said he, glancing down at the flowersin his hand.
“Yes—jest like Jo’s when she hasn’t got quite’nough to pay Mr. Jessam—he’s a great beast, he isan’ with a beard. I hate beards, don’t you, Dal?”
“Sure thing, Hon. But who’s Mr. Jessam?”
“A large man that comes in a car an’ lives on our rent.You see our cottage b’longs to him reely, an’ he won’tmend the sitting-room chimbley though it smokes drefflyawful sometimes.”
Now listening to this sweet, childish voice, lookinginto these clear, childish eyes, there rushed upon him theblasting memory of those latter discreditable monthsin New York with their final culminating horror, and,knowing himself for what he was become—a fugitivefrom Justice, an outlaw branded by stain indelible, hebowed his head while the soul within him grew sick. . . .
“Now you look weepy again!” sighed little Patiencesuddenly. “Haven’t you any friends—is that why?”
“Yes I . . . I guess that’s why, Honey,” he answered,keeping his eyes averted. . . . Out to him came a littlehand, somewhat grubby, but full of cowslips.
“Ne-ver mind!” said she consolingly. “Here’s moreflowers what I picked for my angel, but she’s got heapsof flowers in heaven an’ you’re a lone, lorn soul like JesseBlee, the shepherd, only he’s old with whiskers.”
So the hand of Innocence took and clasped the hand ofGuilt wherefore Dallas spoke, below his breath:
“God bless you, Honey!”
“Thank you!” said she, demurely.
“But, say now why do you thank me?”
“’Cause you prayed for me, an’ our Sarah says I needsech a lot of praying for—”
At this moment, above a tussock of grass, a few yardsaway, rose a weather-beaten old hat shading a weather-beatenold face, yet a ruddy face lit by shrewd, brighteyes and framed in wiry whisker.
“Lordy!” exclaimed this head, and up from steep,grassy hollow rose a somewhat bowed figure yet allvigorous strength from stooping shoulders to lean, gaiteredlegs. “Lordy!” repeated the new-comer, and leaningupon the crook he carried, stared very hard at Dallaswho, meeting this sharp scrutiny, immediatelyblenched with sense of guilt and extreme unworthiness.
“Good afternoon, Jesse!” quoth the Small Damsel indignified yet kindly greeting. “He’s a shepherd, Dal, an’his name’s Jesse Blee,” she explained. “How’s yourrheumatics, Jesse, an’ where’s your Roger?”
“Whoy Roger ’e be down-along Deepdene way arterthem ewes, Mis’ Pat, an’ me rheumatics be naun so bad’cept for me back, an’ me feet, an’ me ’ands, an’ thej’ints o’ me knees an’ elbers, an’ a crick in me back asketches me crool noo an’ then, otherwise I be purty chig.But Lordy, Mis’ Patience, wot be doin’ up ’ere arlb’yeself—an’ ’long of a stranger tu?”
“Oh—but this isn’t a stranger any more, Jesse,” sheanswered, pointing small finger at Dallas’s despondentfigure. “You see I know him now, an’ his name’s Dal-for-short,an’ he’s a lone, lorn soul—jest the same as you,Jesse.”
“Then ’e didn’t ought to be!” retorted the old shepherd,frowning at the silent Dallas and shaking his head.“No ’e didn’t nowise ought to be—nohow.”
“But you’re a lorn soul, Jesse, you tell everybodyyou are——”
“Sure-ly, Mis’ Patience. But ’tis nat’ral in me for I bea old un. But ’e be a young un, and to be young an’ lornbeant nat’ral—and yon come them ewes!”
Sheep were bleating, lambs were wailing and up fromgrassy steeps below a dog came bounding, a large, veryshaggy, tailless dog who leapt towards Patience, redtongue a-flutter in joyous welcome, then turned to surveyDallas with a pair of light-grey, inquiring ey