Short Fiction - Herman Melville (top 100 novels of all time .txt) 📗

test this admirable invention of yours. And could it not be tested almost anywhere?”

“Simple boy,” quoth my uncle, “would you have some malignant spy steal from me the fruits of ten long years of high-hearted, persevering endeavor? Solitary in my scheme, I go to a solitary place to test it. If I fail⁠—for all things are possible⁠—no one out of the family will know it. If I succeed, secure in the secrecy of my invention, I can boldly demand any price for its publication.”

“Pardon me, dear uncle; you are wiser than I.”

“One would think years and gray hairs should bring wisdom, boy.”

“Yorpy there, dear uncle; think you his grizzled locks thatch a brain improved by long life?”

“Am I Yorpy, boy? Keep to your oar!”

Thus padlocked again, I said no further word till the skiff grounded on the shallows, some twenty yards from the deep-wooded isle.

“Hush!” whispered my uncle, intensely; “not a word now!” and he sat perfectly still, slowly sweeping with his glance the whole country around, even to both banks of the here wide-expanded stream.

“Wait till that horseman, yonder, passes!” he whispered again, pointing to a speck moving along a lofty, riverside road, which perilously wound on midway up a long line of broken bluffs and cliffs. “There⁠—he’s out of sight now, behind the copse. Quick! Yorpy! Carefully, though! Jump overboard, and shoulder the box, and⁠—Hold!”

We were all mute and motionless again.

“Ain’t that a boy, sitting like Zaccheus in yonder tree of the orchard on the other bank? Look, youngster⁠—young eyes are better than old⁠—don’t you see him?”

“Dear uncle, I see the orchard, but I can’t see any boy.”

“He’s a spy⁠—I know he is,” suddenly said my uncle, disregardful of my answer, and intently gazing, shading his eyes with his flattened hand. “Don’t touch the box, Yorpy. Crouch! crouch down, all of ye!”

“Why, uncle⁠—there⁠—see⁠—the boy is only a withered white bough. I see it very plainly now.”

“You don’t see the tree I mean,” quoth my uncle, with a decided air of relief, “but never mind; I defy the boy. Yorpy, jump out, and shoulder the box. And now then, youngster, off with your shoes and stockings, roll up your trousers legs, and follow me. Carefully, Yorpy, carefully. That’s more precious than a box of gold, mind.”

“Heavy as de gelt anyhow,” growled Yorpy, staggering and splashing in the shallows beneath it.

“There, stop under the bushes there⁠—in among the flags⁠—so⁠—gently, gently⁠—there, put it down just there. Now youngster, are you ready? Follow⁠—tiptoes, tiptoes!”

“I can’t wade in this mud and water on my tiptoes, uncle; and I don’t see the need of it either.”

“Go ashore, sir⁠—instantly!”

“Why, uncle, I am ashore.”

“Peace! follow me, and no more.”

Crouching in the water in complete secrecy, beneath the bushes and among the tall flags, my uncle now stealthily produced a hammer and wrench from one of his enormous pockets, and presently tapped the box. But the sound alarmed him.

“Yorpy,” he whispered, “go you off to the right, behind the bushes, and keep watch. If you see anyone coming, whistle softly. Youngster, you do the same to the left.”

We obeyed; and presently, after considerable hammering and supplemental tinkering, my uncle’s voice was heard in the utter solitude, loudly commanding our return.

Again we obeyed, and now found the cover of the box removed. All eagerness, I peeped in, and saw a surprising multiplicity of convoluted metal pipes and syringes of all sorts and varieties, all sizes and calibres, inextricably interwreathed together in one gigantic coil. It looked like a huge nest of anacondas and adders.

“Now then, Yorpy,” said my uncle, all animation, and flushed with the foretaste of glory, “do you stand this side, and be ready to tip when I give the word. And do you, youngster, stand ready to do as much for the other side. Mind, don’t budge it the fraction of a barleycorn till I say the word. All depends on a proper adjustment.”

“No fear, uncle. I will be careful as a lady’s tweezers.”

“I s’ant life de heavy pox,” growled old Yorpy, “till de wort pe given; no fear o’ dat.”

“Oh, boy,” said my uncle now, upturning his face devotionally, while a really noble gleam irradiated his gray eyes, locks, and wrinkles; “Oh, boy! this, this is the hour which for ten long years has, in the prospect, sustained me through all my painstaking obscurity. Fame will be the sweeter because it comes at the last; the truer, because it comes to an old man like me, not to a boy like you. Sustainer! I glorify Thee.”

He bowed over his venerable head, and⁠—as I live⁠—something like a shower-drop somehow fell from my face into the shallows.

“Tip!”

We tipped.

“A leetle more!”

We tipped a little more.

“A leetle more!”

We tipped a leetle more.

“Just a leetle, very leetle bit more.”

With great difficulty we tipped just a leetle, very leetle more.

All this time my uncle was diligently stooping over, and striving to peep in, up, and under the box where the coiled anacondas and adders lay; but the machine being now fairly immersed, the attempt was wholly vain.

He rose erect, and waded slowly all round the box; his countenance firm and reliant, but not a little troubled and vexed.

It was plain something or other was going wrong. But as I was left in utter ignorance as to the mystery of the contrivance, I could not tell where the difficulty lay, or what was the proper remedy.

Once more, still more slowly, still more vexedly, my uncle waded round the box, the dissatisfaction gradually deepening, but still controlled, and still with hope at the bottom of it.

Nothing could be more sure than that some anticipated effect had, as yet, failed to develop itself. Certain I was, too, that the waterline did not lower about my legs.

“Tip it a leetle bit⁠—very leetle now.”

“Dear uncle, it is tipped already as far as it can be. Don’t you see it rests now square on its bottom?”

“You, Yorpy, take your black hoof from under the box!”

This gust of passion on the part of my uncle made the