- end_line
- 2875
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:05.590Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 2803
- text
- assumed, he took a deck passage in the packet. It coming on to rain
violently, he stole down into the forecastle, dimly lit by a solitary
swinging lamp, where were two men industriously smoking, and filling
the narrow hole with soporific vapors. These induced strange drowsiness
in Israel, and he pondered how best he might indulge it, for a time,
without imperilling the precious documents in his custody.
But this pondering in such soporific vapors had the effect of those
mathematical devices whereby restless people cipher themselves to
sleep. His languid head fell to his breast. In another moment, he
drooped half-lengthwise upon a chest, his legs outstretched before him.
Presently he was awakened by some intermeddlement with his feet.
Starting to his elbow, he saw one of the two men in the act of slyly
slipping off his right boot, while the left one, already removed, lay
on the floor, all ready against the rascal’s retreat Had it not been
for the lesson learned on the Pont Neuf, Israel would instantly have
inferred that his secret mission was known, and the operator some
designed diplomatic knave or other, hired by the British Cabinet, thus
to lie in wait for him, fume him into slumber with tobacco, and then
rifle him of his momentous dispatches. But as it was, he recalled
Doctor Franklin’s prudent admonitions against the indulgence of
premature suspicions.
“Sir,” said Israel very civilly, “I will thank you for that boot which
lies on the floor, and, if you please, you can let the other stay where
it is.”
“Excuse me,” said the rascal, an accomplished, self-possessed
practitioner in his thievish art; “I thought your boots might be
pinching you, and only wished to ease you a little.”
“Much obliged to ye for your kindness, sir,” said Israel; “but they
don’t pinch me at all. I suppose, though, you think they wouldn’t pinch
_you_ either; your foot looks rather small. Were you going to try ’em
on, just to see how they fitted?”
“No,” said the fellow, with sanctimonious seriousness; “but with your
permission I should like to try them on, when we get to Dover. I
couldn’t try them well walking on this tipsy craft’s deck, you know.”
“No,” answered Israel, “and the beach at Dover ain’t very smooth
either. I guess, upon second thought, you had better not try ’em on at
all. Besides, I am a simple sort of a soul—eccentric they call me—and
don’t like my boots to go out of my sight. Ha! ha!”
“What are you laughing at?” said the fellow testily.
“Odd idea! I was just looking at those sad old patched boots there on
your feet, and thinking to myself what leaky fire-buckets they would be
to pass up a ladder on a burning building. It would hardly be fair now
to swop my new boots for those old fire-buckets, would it?”
“By plunko!” cried the fellow, willing now by a bold stroke to change
the subject, which was growing slightly annoying; “by plunko, I believe
we are getting nigh Dover. Let’s see.”
And so saying, he sprang up the ladder to the deck. Upon Israel
following, he found the little craft half becalmed, rolling on short
swells almost in the exact middle of the channel. It was just before
the break of the morning; the air clear and fine; the heavens spangled
with moistly twinkling stars. The French and English coasts lay
distinctly visible in the strange starlight, the white cliffs of Dover
resembling a long gabled block of marble houses. Both shores showed a
long straight row of lamps. Israel seemed standing in the middle of the
crossing of some wide stately street in London. Presently a breeze
sprang up, and ere long our adventurer disembarked at his destined
port, and directly posted on for Brentford.
The following afternoon, having gained unobserved admittance into the
house, according to preconcerted signals, he was sitting in Squire
Woodcock’s closet, pulling off his boots and delivering his dispatches.
- title
- Chunk 2