Robbery Under Arms - Rolf Boldrewood (most important books of all time .TXT) 📗

three weeks! die on Thursday! That’s the way the time runs in my ears like a chime of bells. But it’s all mere bosh I’ve been reading these long six months I’ve been chained up here⁠—after I was committed for trial. When I came out of the hospital after curing me of that wound⁠—for I was hit bad by that black tracker⁠—they gave me some books to read for fear I’d go mad and cheat the hangman. I was always fond of reading, and many a night I’ve read to poor old mother and Aileen before I left the old place. I was that weak and low, after I took the turn, and I felt glad to get a book to take me away from sitting, staring, and blinking at nothing by the hour together. It was all very well then; I was too weak to think much. But when I began to get well again I kept always coming across something in the book that made me groan or cry out, as if someone had stuck a knife in me. A dark chap did once⁠—through the ribs⁠—it didn’t feel so bad, a little sharpish at first; why didn’t he aim a bit higher? He never was no good, even at that. As I was saying, there’d be something about a horse, or the country, or the spring weather⁠—it’s just coming in now, and the Indian corn’s shooting after the rain, and I’ll never see it; or they’d put in a bit about the cows walking through the river in the hot summer afternoons; or they’d go describing about a girl, until I began to think of sister Aileen again; then I’d run my head against the wall, or do something like a madman, and they’d stop the books for a week; and I’d be as miserable as a bandicoot, worse and worse a lot, with all the devil’s tricks and bad thoughts in my head, and nothing to put them away.

I must either kill myself, or get something to fill up my time till the day⁠—yes, the day comes. I’ve always been a middling writer, tho’ I can’t say much for the grammar, and spelling, and that, but I’ll put it all down, from the beginning to the end, and maybe it’ll save some other unfortunate young chap from pulling back like a colt when he’s first roped, setting himself against everything in the way of proper breaking, making a fool of himself generally, and choking himself down, as I’ve done.

The gaoler⁠—he looks hard⁠—he has to do that, there’s more than one or two within here that would have him by the throat, with his heart’s blood running, in half a minute, if they had their way, and the warder was off guard. He knows that very well. But he’s not a bad-hearted chap.

“You can have books, or paper and pens, anything you like,” he said, “you unfortunate young beggar, until you’re turned off.”

“If I’d only had you to see after me when I was young,” says I⁠⸺⁠

“Come; don’t whine,” he said, then he burst out laughing. “You didn’t mean it, I see. I ought to have known better. You’re not one of that sort, and I like you all the better for it.”

Well, here goes. Lots of pens, a big bottle of ink, and ever so much foolscap paper, the right sort for me, or I shouldn’t have been here. I’m blessed if it doesn’t look as if I was going to write copies again. Don’t I remember how I used to go to school in old times; the rides there and back on the old pony; and pretty little Grace Storefield that I was so fond of, and used to show her how to do her lessons. I believe I learned more that way than if I’d had only myself to think about. There was another girl, the daughter of the poundkeeper, that I wanted her to beat; and the way we both worked, and I coached her up, was a caution. And she did get above her in her class. How proud we were! She gave me a kiss, too, and a bit of her hair. Poor Gracey! I wonder where she is now, and what she’d think if she saw me here today. If I could have looked ahead, and seen myself⁠—chained now like a dog, and going to die a dog’s death this day month!

Anyhow, I must make a start. How do people begin when they set to work to write their own sayings and doings? There’s been a deal more doing than talking in my life⁠—it was the wrong sort⁠—more’s the pity.

Well, let’s see; his parents were poor, but respectable. That’s what they always say. My parents were poor, and mother was as good a soul as ever broke bread, and wouldn’t have taken a shilling’s worth that wasn’t her own if she’d been starving. But as for father, he’d been a poacher in England, a Lincolnshire man he was, and got sent out for it. He wasn’t much more than a boy, he said, and it was only for a hare or two, which didn’t seem much. But I begin to think, being able to see the right of things a bit now, and having no bad grog inside of me to turn a fellow’s head upside down, as poaching must be something like cattle and horse duffing⁠—not the worst thing in the world itself, but mighty likely to lead to it.

Dad had always been a hardworking, steady-going sort of chap, good at most things, and like a lot more of the Government men, as the convicts were always called round our part, he saved some money as soon as he had done his time, and married mother, who was a simple emigrant girl just out from Ireland. Father was a square-built, good-looking chap, I believe, then; not so tall as I am by three inches, but wonderfully strong and quick on