Strange Yesterday Read Online Free PDF Page B

the thing had been done, quite upon the spur of the moment, and without too much of thought. This he knew: that if he hesitated, he would be lost. Consideration would have burst it like a bubble. After all, Peter was an old man.
    When he rose to go inside, he stopped at the door, looking up at the painted sign of the Steer’s Horn; and, looking past the sign, he could see, barely lit by the reflected rays of a sun that had already set, the hill called Steer’s Head.

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    T HE next morning he left. Before he went, he said his good-by to Peter, and to Lilian, the maid, and to the hostler. Into a small bag, he put two broadcloth shirts, a pair of thin yellow breeches, and several large handkerchiefs. Then he set off, three thousand dollars in a belt about his waist, to the place where the sea was.
    Once he looked behind him to the Steer’s Head, and the yearning thought came that if he climbed the hill, he could look at the sea, and that, after all, there was much—so much, perhaps—in merely staring at it, so far off. But, knowing that it was too late, he put the thought aside.
    In perhaps an hour the stage passed him, and he hailed it, ran after it, and swung aboard just as the horses rolled back into their stride. He found a seat, paid his fare, and set himself to watch the landscape rocking by. By evening they came into the city, and he went to a small but good inn that he knew, and where he had stopped before.
    The room he took was snug and clean, with a large and soft bed—such a room as he invariably preferred; and the supper he ate was large, satisfying, and filling, with a cut of beef, a pie, and three heavy puddings, leaving him at the finish comfortably stuffed, an inviting bottle of port before him. Now, the landlord of that tavern was a Mr. Kwalkee, whom John Preswick had known for many years, and with whom he was upon terms of some intimacy. He beckoned him, when he had eaten, urging him to bring a glass and to partake of the port; nor was the landlord slow to accept.
    John Preswick said: “The port is good. Your cellars are older than mine.” He spoke in the easy manner taken between men of the same trade, but not in competition.
    â€œYes,” Mr. Kwalkee nodded. “To your health.”
    â€œThat I shall need,” John Preswick remarked gravely.
    â€œEh—?” Mr. Kwalkee raised a brow.
    â€œMy friend,” mused John Preswick, “you are an honorable man. I know that, so I can speak freely to you, as I would not to another. I need sound advice. Beneath my belt, I have three thousand dollars in good United States currency. And that is all I have, being no longer an innkeeper. But that is of my own choosing. I want other things: to trade, to invest, to buy cargo, to see other parts of the world and, eventually, to wield power. You know the city. You can help me. And I trust you. So I have come to you.”
    Mr. Kwalkee emitted a long, slow whistle. “You said three thousand dollars?”
    Nodding seriously, John Preswick reaffirmed it. “Three thousand dollars. It is all that is mine in the world, but it is not a sum to be ashamed of. However, I should like the advice of a man who knows ships and the ways of shipping. They tell me there are fortunes to be made in shipping.”
    â€œWhere is this money?” the innkeeper inquired, wondering that any mature person could be so absurdly simple.
    â€œWhere?—why, upon me. I have it in a canvas money belt close against my paunch, where it is safe from the sleekest of pocket lifters.”
    â€œAnd when you walk about, it is with you? And when you sleep?”
    â€œYes. Is that so—remarkable?”
    â€œIt is upon you now?”
    â€œYes, but—”
    Suddenly he broke off with his words, eying the innkeeper. It occurred to him that perhaps he had said too much; but, again, Mr. Kwalkee was his friend. More easily he breathed as he went on:
    â€œI would invest it. They say that