a short story
I have a Launchcast station. My ID is silmarwen14. It plays a lot of different stuff.
And by the way, here's a silly little ditty I wrote sort of recently:
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I sat down on the train, next to a natty-looking fellow.
"Hello there," I said, just trying to be friendly.
My fellow traveler looked positively delighted to see me. He shared his newspaper. "Look at this here," he pointed to the headlines on the top of the second page. "Someone from Dover discovered to have the world's largest snuff box collection. Sounds fascinating, what? We should trip over sometime to see it."
I nodded my assent. "Snuff boxes are a rare and unusual commodity, indeed. Every gentleman has his personal style." I proudly drew my snuff box from my suitcase, where I kept it for safekeeping.
"That's a dandy!" my companion exclaimed. I handed it to him, and watched as he inspected it closely. "Real gold, right?"
"My grandfather passed it on when I came of age. It's been in the family for years."
"The jewel-work is exquisite!"
"Certainly. The snuff isn't bad either. Have a pinch."
I reclaimed my snuff box, and gave the dandy a bit. He gushed enthusiasm. I put my box safely back into my briefcase!
"You don't sound like you're from around here," I finally said to him. "Are you from Canada?"
"Chicago," he grinned.
"What business brings you to Britain?"
"Research with a fellow in Dover," he replied.
"I'm going to Dover myself."
"Really?" He stared at me intently. "Do you live there?"
"As a matter of fact, I do." I shifted in my seat.
"Perhaps you know this snuff-box fellow," he gestured to the story in the London Times.
"Never in my life," I stared at him. He looked strangely familiar.
The train stopped at a station. My traveling companion spent a great deal of time shuffling around underneath our seat for his bags. He left the car with his great mound of luggage, and I wondered why he did not call a porter to help him with all those boxes and bags.
I thought, If his business is in Dover, then why does he not stay on board til then?
I reached under my seat for my briefcase. A pinch of snuff sounded most welcome at that moment. But my box wasn't in my case. Nor could I find it in the depths of my jacket.
"Well, well," I thought with more than a twinge of annoyance. "Research, eh?"
It was too late to do anything. The whistle blew. Before long, I found myself back in Dover.
My little manse looked the same as ever. I rang the bell, but the maid answered. Where was Jeeves? Surely he had not fallen asleep!
I found his note on my dresser. A mysterious cousin had fallen mysteriously ill. Apologies.
"Well, at least I know the rat," I thought to myself. I counted all my snuff-boxes, just to be sure. Yes, there were 576. They all survived. The nerve of my butler, posting me in the London Times and opening exhibitions at my house while I was abroad!
The next morning there was a brief in the London Times. Infamous jewel thief traced by secret police, from Chicago as far as the London subway system, where he disappeared last month. They suspect he recently reappeared in Dover as a local folklore scholar by the name of Edgar Clyde. Sparse evidence suggests he has since fled to India.
Clyde, welcome to the underworld. Someday I'll find you and make you give back that snuff box!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And by the way, here's a silly little ditty I wrote sort of recently:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I sat down on the train, next to a natty-looking fellow.
"Hello there," I said, just trying to be friendly.
My fellow traveler looked positively delighted to see me. He shared his newspaper. "Look at this here," he pointed to the headlines on the top of the second page. "Someone from Dover discovered to have the world's largest snuff box collection. Sounds fascinating, what? We should trip over sometime to see it."
I nodded my assent. "Snuff boxes are a rare and unusual commodity, indeed. Every gentleman has his personal style." I proudly drew my snuff box from my suitcase, where I kept it for safekeeping.
"That's a dandy!" my companion exclaimed. I handed it to him, and watched as he inspected it closely. "Real gold, right?"
"My grandfather passed it on when I came of age. It's been in the family for years."
"The jewel-work is exquisite!"
"Certainly. The snuff isn't bad either. Have a pinch."
I reclaimed my snuff box, and gave the dandy a bit. He gushed enthusiasm. I put my box safely back into my briefcase!
"You don't sound like you're from around here," I finally said to him. "Are you from Canada?"
"Chicago," he grinned.
"What business brings you to Britain?"
"Research with a fellow in Dover," he replied.
"I'm going to Dover myself."
"Really?" He stared at me intently. "Do you live there?"
"As a matter of fact, I do." I shifted in my seat.
"Perhaps you know this snuff-box fellow," he gestured to the story in the London Times.
"Never in my life," I stared at him. He looked strangely familiar.
The train stopped at a station. My traveling companion spent a great deal of time shuffling around underneath our seat for his bags. He left the car with his great mound of luggage, and I wondered why he did not call a porter to help him with all those boxes and bags.
I thought, If his business is in Dover, then why does he not stay on board til then?
I reached under my seat for my briefcase. A pinch of snuff sounded most welcome at that moment. But my box wasn't in my case. Nor could I find it in the depths of my jacket.
"Well, well," I thought with more than a twinge of annoyance. "Research, eh?"
It was too late to do anything. The whistle blew. Before long, I found myself back in Dover.
My little manse looked the same as ever. I rang the bell, but the maid answered. Where was Jeeves? Surely he had not fallen asleep!
I found his note on my dresser. A mysterious cousin had fallen mysteriously ill. Apologies.
"Well, at least I know the rat," I thought to myself. I counted all my snuff-boxes, just to be sure. Yes, there were 576. They all survived. The nerve of my butler, posting me in the London Times and opening exhibitions at my house while I was abroad!
The next morning there was a brief in the London Times. Infamous jewel thief traced by secret police, from Chicago as far as the London subway system, where he disappeared last month. They suspect he recently reappeared in Dover as a local folklore scholar by the name of Edgar Clyde. Sparse evidence suggests he has since fled to India.
Clyde, welcome to the underworld. Someday I'll find you and make you give back that snuff box!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
posted by Unknown at 3:24 PM
2 Comments:
Hoo hoo, I love it!! So this is your story about the snuff-box urchin. :)
Um, Frodo dear, it's about a snuff box thief (or two), not about an URCHIN. The URCHIN was in a different sketch that I wrote at about the same time and abandoned to a long slow death in the depths of my neglected notebook. :P
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