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- 2026-01-30T03:48:16.153Z
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- structure-extraction-lambda
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- text
- daughters could not be prevailed upon to join. So we played whist with
two dummies literally; my wife won the rubber and, fatigued with
victory, put away the cards.
Half-past eleven o’clock. No sign of the bug. The candles began to burn
dim. My wife was just in the act of snuffing them, when a sudden,
violent, hollow, resounding, rumbling, thumping was heard.
Julia and Anna sprang to their feet.
‘All well!’ cried a voice from the street. It was the watchman, first
ringing down his club on the pavement, and then following it up with
this highly satisfactory verbal announcement.
‘All well! Do you hear that, my girls?’ said I, gaily.
Indeed it was astonishing how brave as Bruce I felt in company with
three women, and two of them half frightened out of their wits.
I rose for my pipe, and took a philosophic smoke.
Democritus forever, thought I.
In profound silence, I sat smoking, when lo!--pop! pop! pop!--right
under the table, a terrible popping.
This time we all four sprang up, and my pipe was broken.
‘Good heavens! what’s that?’
‘Spirits! spirits!’ cried Julia.
‘Oh, oh, oh!’ cried Anna.
‘Shame!’ said my wife, ‘it’s that new bottled cider, in the cellar,
going off. I told Biddy to wire the bottles to-day.’
I shall here transcribe from memoranda, kept during part of the night.
‘One o’clock. No sign of the bug. Ticking continues. Wife getting
sleepy.
‘Two o’clock. No sign of the bug. Ticking intermittent. Wife fast
asleep.
‘Three o’clock. No sign of the bug. Ticking pretty steady. Julia
and Anna getting sleepy.
‘Four o’clock. No sign of the bug. Ticking regular, but not
spirited. Wife, Julia, and Anna, all fast asleep in their chairs.
‘Five o’clock. No sign of the bug. Ticking faint. Myself feeling
drowsy. The rest still asleep.’
So far the journal.
--Rap! rap! rap!
A terrific, portentous rapping against a door.
Startled from our dreams, we started to our feet.
Rap! rap! rap!
Julia and Anna shrieked.
I cowered in the corner.
‘You fools!’ cried my wife, ‘it’s the baker with the bread.’
Six o’clock.
She went to throw back the shutters, but ere it was done, a cry came
from Julia. There, half in and half out its crack, there wriggled the
bug, flashing in the room’s general dimness, like a fiery opal.
Had this bug had a tiny sword by its side--a Damascus sword--and a tiny
necklace round its neck--a diamond necklace--and a tiny gun in its
claw--brass gun--and a tiny manuscript in its mouth--a Chaldee
manuscript--Julia and Anna could not have stood more charmed.
In truth, it was a beautiful bug--a Jew jeweller’s bug--a bug like a
sparkle of a glorious sunset.
Julia and Anna had never dreamed of such a bug. To them, bug had been a
word synonymous with hideousness. But this was a seraphical bug; or
rather, all it had of the bug was the B, for it was beautiful as a
butterfly.
Julia and Anna gazed and gazed. They were no more alarmed. They were
delighted.
‘But how got this strange, pretty creature into the table?’ cried Julia.
‘Spirits can get anywhere,’ replied Anna.
‘Pshaw!’ said my wife.
‘Do you hear any more ticking?’ said I.
They all applied their ears, but heard nothing.
‘Well, then, wife and daughters, now that it is all over, this very
morning I will go and make inquiries about it.’
‘Oh do, papa,’ cried Julia, ‘do go and consult Madame Pazzi, the
conjuress.’
‘Better go and consult Professor Johnson, the naturalist,’ said my wife.
‘Bravo, Mrs. Democritus!’ said I. ‘Professor Johnson is the man.’
- title
- Chunk 13