- end_line
- 9216
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:14.842Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 9138
- text
- “Cigars,” said Harry. When they came, he drew up a small table into the
middle of the room, and lighting his cigar, bade me follow his example,
and make myself happy.
Almost transported with such princely quarters, so undreamed of before,
while leading my dog’s life in the filthy forecastle of the Highlander,
I twirled round a chair, and seated myself opposite my friend.
But all the time, I felt ill at heart; and was filled with an
undercurrent of dismal forebodings. But I strove to dispel them; and
turning to my companion, exclaimed, “And pray, do you live here, Harry,
in this Palace of Aladdin?”
“Upon my soul,” he cried, “you have hit it:—you must have been here
before! Aladdin’s Palace! Why, Wellingborough, it goes by that very
name.”
Then he laughed strangely: and for the first time, I thought he had
been quaffing too freely: yet, though he looked wildly from his eyes,
his general carriage was firm.
“Who are you looking at so hard, Wellingborough?” said he.
“I am afraid, Harry,” said I, “that when you left me just now, you must
have been drinking something stronger than wine.”
“Hear him now,” said Harry, turning round, as if addressing the
bald-headed bust on the bracket,—“a parson ’pon honor!—But remark you,
Wellingborough, my boy, I must leave you again, and for a considerably
longer time than before:—I may not be back again to-night.”
“What?” said I.
“Be still,” he cried, “hear me, I know the old duke here, and—”
“Who? not the Duke of Wellington,” said I, wondering whether Harry was
really going to include _him_ too, in his long list of confidential
friends and acquaintances.
“Pooh!” cried Harry, “I mean the white-whiskered old man you saw below;
they call him _the Duke:—he_ keeps the house. I say, I know him well,
and he knows _me;_ and he knows what brings me here, also. Well; we
have arranged every thing about you; you are to stay in this room, and
sleep here tonight, and—and—” continued he, speaking low—“you must
guard this letter—” slipping a sealed one into my hand—“and, if I am
not back by morning, you must post right on to Bury, and leave the
letter there;—here, take this paper—it’s all set down here in black and
white—where you are to go, and what you are to do. And after that’s
done—mind, this is all in case I don’t return—then you may do what you
please: stay here in London awhile, or go back to Liverpool. And here’s
enough to pay all your expenses.”
All this was a thunder stroke. I thought Harry was crazy. I held the
purse in my motionless hand, and stared at him, till the tears almost
started from my eyes.
“What’s the matter, Redburn?” he cried, with a wild sort of laugh—“you
are not afraid of me, are you?—No, no! I believe in you, my boy, or you
would not hold that purse in your hand; no, nor that letter.”
“What in heaven’s name do you mean?” at last I exclaimed, “you don’t
really intend to desert me in this strange place, do you, Harry?” and I
snatched him by the hand.
“Pooh, pooh,” he cried, “let me go. I tell you, it’s all right: do as I
say: that’s all. Promise me now, will you? Swear it!—no, no,” he added,
vehemently, as I conjured him to tell me more—“no, I won’t: I have
nothing more to tell you—not a word. Will you swear?”
“But one sentence more for your own sake, Harry: hear me!”
“Not a syllable! Will you swear?—you will not? then here, give me that
purse:—there—there—take that—and that—and that;—that will pay your fare
back to Liverpool; good-by to you: you are not my friend,” and he
wheeled round his back.
I know not what flashed through my mind, but something suddenly
impelled me; and grasping his hand, I swore to him what he demanded.
- title
- Chunk 4