Porter The Tangled Threads

1. Auflage 2018
ISBN: 978-1-4553-1445-4
Verlag: Seltzer Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 751 Seiten

According to Wikipedia: 'Eleanor Hodgman Porter (December 19, 1868 - May 21, 1920) was an American novelist. Born in Littleton, New Hampshire, Eleanor Hodgman was trained as a singer but later turned to writing. In 1892, she married John Lyman Porter and moved to Massachusetts. Porter mainly wrote children's literature, including three Miss Billy books (Miss Billy, Miss Billy's Decision, and Miss Billy Married), Cross Currents (1928), The Turn of the Tide (1928), and Six Star Ranch (1916). Her most famous novel is Pollyanna (1913), later followed by a sequel, Pollyanna Grows Up (1915). Her adult novels include The Story of Marco (1920), Just David (1915), The Road to Understanding (1916), Oh Money Money (1917), Dawn (1918), Keith's Dark Tower (1919), Mary Marie (1920), and Sister Sue (1921); her short stories include 'Money, Love and Kate' (1924) and 'Little Pardner' (1927).'

Autoren/Hrsg.

Porter, Eleanor

Leseproben

Millionaire Mike's Thanksgiving
  He was not Mike at first; he was only the Millionaire--a young millionaire who sat in a wheel chair on the pier waiting for the boat. He had turned his coat-collar up to shut out the wind, and his hatbrim down to shut out the sun.  For the time being he was alone.  He had sent his attendant back for a forgotten book.   It was Thanksgiving, but the Millionaire was not thankful.  He was not thinking of what he had, but of what he wanted.  He wanted his old strength of limb, and his old freedom from pain.  True, the doctors had said that he might have them again in time, but he wanted them now.  He wanted the Girl, also.  He would have her, to be sure, that very evening; but he wanted her now.   The girl had been very sweet and gentle about it, but she had been firm.  As he could recollect it, their conversation had run something like this:   "But I want you myself, all day."   "But, Billy, don't you see?  I promised; besides, I ought to do it.  I am the president of the club.  If I shirk responsibility, what can I expect the others to do?"   "But I need you just as much--yes, more--than those poor families."   "Oh, Billy, how can you say that, when they are so very poor, and when every one of them is the proud kind that would simply rather starve than go after their turkey and things!  That's why we girls take them to them.  Don't you see?"   "Oh, yes, I see.  I see I don't count.  It could n't be expected that I'd count--now!"  And he patted the crutches at his side.   It was despicable in him, and he knew it.  But he said it.  He could see her eyes now, all hurt and sorrowful as she went away. . . .  And so this morning he sat waiting for the boat, a long, lonely day in prospect in his bungalow on the island, while behind him he had left the dearest girl in the world, who, with other petted darlings of wealth and luxury, was to distribute Thanksgiving baskets to the poor.   Not that his day needed to be lonely.  He knew that.  A dozen friends stood ready and anxious to supply him with a good dinner and plenty of companionship.  But he would have none of them.  As if _he_ wanted a Thanksgiving dinner!   And thus alone he waited in the wheel chair; and how he abhorred it--that chair--which was not strange, perhaps, considering the automobile that he loved.  Since the accident, however, his injured back had forbidden the speed and jar of motor cars, allowing only the slow but exasperating safety of crutches and a wheel chair.  To-day even that seemed denied him, for the man who wheeled his chair did not come.   With a frown the Millionaire twisted himself about and looked behind him.  It was near the time for the boat to start, and there would not be another for three hours.  From the street hurried a jostling throng of men, women, and children.  Longingly the Millionaire watched them. He had no mind to spend the next three hours where he was.  If he could be pushed on to the boat, he would trust to luck for the other side. With his still weak left arm he could not propel himself, but if he could find some one--   Twice, with one of the newspapers that lay in his lap, he made a feeble attempt to attract attention; but the Millionaire was used to commanding, not begging, and his action passed unnoticed.  He saw then in the crowd the face of a friend, and with a despairing gesture he waved the paper again.  But the friend passed by unheeding.  What happened then was so entirely unexpected that the Millionaire fell back in his chair dumb with amazement.   "Here, Mike, ye ain't on ter yer job.  Youse can't sell nuttin' dat way," scoffed a friendly voice.  "Here, now, watch!"  And before the Millionaire could collect his wits he saw the four papers he had bought that morning to help beguile a dreary day, snatched into the grimy hands of a small boy and promptly made off with.   The man's angry word of remonstrance died on his lips.  The boy was darting in and out of the crowd, shouting "Poiper, here's yer poiper!" at the top of his voice.  Nor did he return until the last pair of feet had crossed the gangplank.  Then in triumph he hurried back to the waiting man in the wheel chair and dropped into his lap a tiny heap of coppers.   "Sold out, pardner!  Dat's what we be," he crowed delighted.  "Sold out!"   "But--I--you--" gasped the man.   "Aw, furgit it--'t wa'n't nuttin'," disdained the boy airily.  "Ye see, youse got ter holler."   "To--to 'holler'!"   "Sure, Mike, or ye can't sell nuttin'.  I been a-watchin' ye, an' I see right off ye wa'n't on ter yer job.  Why, pardner, ye can't sell poipers like ye was shellin' out free sody-checks at a picnic.  Youse got ter yell at 'em, an' git dere 'tention.  'Course, ye can't run like I can"--his voice softened awkwardly as his eyes fell to the crutches at the man's side--"but ye can holler, an' not jest set dere a-shakin' 'em easy at 'em, like ye did a minute ago.  Dat ain't no way ter sell poipers!"   With a half-smothered exclamation the Millionaire fell back in his chair.  He knew now that he was not a millionaire, but a "Mike" to the boy.  He was not William Seymore Haynes, but a cripple selling papers for a living.  He would not have believed that a turned-up collar, a turned down soft hat, and a few jerks of a newspaper could have made such a metamorphosis.   "Youse'll catch on in no time now, pardner," resumed the boy soothingly, "an' I'm mighty glad I was here ter set ye goin'.  Sure, I sells poipers meself, I does, an' I knows how 't is.  Don't look so flabbergasted.  'T ain't nuttin'.  Shucks! hain't fellers what's pardners oughter do a turn fur 't odder?"   The Millionaire bit his lip.  He had intended to offer money to this boy, but with his gaze on that glowing countenance, he knew that he could not.  He had come suddenly face to face with something for which his gold could not pay.   "Th-thank you," he stammered embarrassedly.  "You--you were very kind." He paused, and gazed nervously back toward the street.  "I--I was expecting some one.  We were going to take that boat."   "No!  Was ye?  An' he did n't show up?  Say, now, dat's tough--an' T'anksgivin', too!"   "As if I cared for Thanksgiving!"  The words came tense with bitterness.   "Aw, come now, furgit it!"  There was a look of real concern on the boy's face.  "Dat ain't no way ter talk.  It's T'anksgivin'!"   "Yes, I know--for some."  The man's lips snapped shut grimly.   "Aw, come off!  Never mind if yer pal did n't show up.  Dere 's odders; dere 's me now.  Tell ye what, youse come home wid me.  Dere won't be no boat now fur a heap o' time, an' I 'm goin' ter T'anksgive.  Come on!  'T ain't fur.  I'll wheel ye."   The man stared frankly.   "Er--thank you," he murmured, with an odd little laugh; "but--"   "Shucks!  'Course ye can.  What be ye goin' ter do?--set here?  What's the use o' mopin' like dis when youse got a invite out ter T'anksgivin'?  An' ye better catch it while it's goin', too.  Ye see, some days I could n't ask ye--not grub enough; but I can ter-day.  We got a s'prise comin'."   "Indeed!"  The tone was abstracted, almost irritable; but the boy ignored this.   "Sure!  It's a dinner--a T'anksgivin' dinner bringed in to us.  Now ain't ye comin'?"   "A dinner, did you say?--brought to you?"   "Yeaup!"   "Who brings it?"   "A lady what comes ter see me an' Kitty sometimes; an' she's a peacherino, she is!  She said she 'd bring it."   "Do you know--her name?"  The words came a little breathlessly.   "You bet!  Why, she's our friend, I tell ye!  Her name is Miss Daisy Carrolton; dat 's what 't is."   The man relaxed in his chair.  It was the dearest girl in the world.   "Say, ain't ye comin'?" urged the boy, anxiously.   "Coming?  Of course I'm coming," cried the man, with sudden energy. "Just catch hold of that chair back there, lad, and you'll see."   "Say, now, dat's sumpin' like," crowed the boy, as he briskly started the chair.  "'T ain't fur, ye know."   Neither the boy nor the Millionaire talked much on the way.  The boy was busy with his task; the man, with his thoughts.  Just why he was doing this thing was not clear even to the man himself.  He suspected it was because of the girl.  He could fancy her...