Forty Minutes Late E-Book

Francis Hopkinson Smith

• Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

In "Forty Minutes Late," Francis Hopkinson Smith crafts a compelling narrative that unfolds with a blend of humor and poignancy, reflecting on themes of time, human relationships, and the consequences of life's unpredictable moments. Utilizing a light yet engaging prose style, Smith paints a vivid picture of characters caught in the ebb and flow of societal expectations and personal dilemmas. Set against a backdrop of late 19th-century America, the novel captures the zeitgeist of an era grappling with rapid change, infusing the story with a sense of immediacy that resonates with contemporary readers. Smith, a multifaceted figure as an author, artist, and engineer, drew on his rich experiences to inform his fiction. His deep understanding of both the human condition and the intricacies of life'Äôs interplay undoubtedly shaped the nuanced characters and relatable situations he portrays in this novel. Smith's background in the arts and personal encounters with the societal norms of his time equip him with a unique lens through which to explore the frailties and triumphs of human experience. "Forty Minutes Late" is highly recommended for readers who appreciate character-driven narratives exploring the subtleties of timing and chance in everyday life. Smith'Äôs delightful storytelling invites reflection and laughter, making this work a timeless exploration of what it means to be human in an increasingly complex world.

Leseprobe

Francis Hopkinson Smith

Forty Minutes Late

1909

Published by Good Press, 2020

[email protected]

EAN 4064066105006

Table of Contents

Cover

Titlepage

Text

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It began to snow half an hour after the train started—a fine-grained, slanting, determined snow that forced its way between the bellows of the vestibules, and deposited itself in mounds of powdered salt all over the platforms and steps. Even the porter had caught some puffs on his depot coat with the red cape, and so had the conductor, from the way he thrashed his cap on the back of the seat in front of mine. “Yes, gettin' worse,” he said in answer to an inquiring lift of my eyebrows. “Everything will be balled up if this keeps on.”

“Shall we make the connection at Bondville?” I was to lecture fifty miles from Bondville Junction, and had but half an hour lee-way.

If the man with the punch heard, he made no answer. The least said the soonest mended in crises like this. If we arrived on time every passenger would grab his bag and bolt out without thanking him or the road, or the engineer who took the full blast of the storm on his chest and cheeks. If we missed the connection, any former hopeful word would only add another hot coal to everybody's anger.

I fell back on the porter.

“Yes' sir, she'll be layin' jes' 'cross de platform. She knows we're comin'. Sometimes she waits ten minutes—sometimes she don't; more times I seen her pullin' out while we was pullin' in.”

Not very reassuring this. Only one statement was of value—the position of the connecting train when we rolled into Bondville.

I formulated a plan: The porter would take one bag, I the other—we would both stand on the lower step of the Pullman, then make a dash. If she was pulling out as we pulled in, a goatlike spring on my part might succeed; the bags being hurled after me to speed the animal's motion.

One hour later we took up our position.

“Dat's good!—Dar she is jes' movin' out: thank ye, sar. I got de bag—dis way!”

There came a jolt, a Saturday-afternoon slide across the ice-covered platform, an outstretched greasy hand held down from the step of the moving train, followed by the chug of a bag that missed my knees by a hand's breadth—and I was hauled on board.

The contrast between a warm, velvet-lined Pullman and a cane-seated car with both doors opened every ten minutes was anything but agreeable; but no discomfort should count when a lecturer is trying to make his connection. That is what he is paid for and that he must do at all hazards and at any cost, even to chartering a special train, the price devouring his fee.

Once in my seat an account of stock was taken—two bags, an umbrella, overcoat, two gum shoes (one off, one on), manuscript of lecture in bag, eye-glasses in outside pocket of waistcoat. This over, I spread myself upon the cane seat and took in the situation. It was four o'clock (the lecture was at eight); Sheffield was two hours away; this would give time to change my dress and get something to eat. The committee, moreover, were to meet me at the depot with a carriage and drive me to where I was “to spend the night and dine”—so the chairman's letter read. The suppressed smile on the second conductor's face when he punched my ticket and read the name of “Sheffield” sent my hand into my pocket in search of this same letter. Yes—there was no mistake about it—“Our carriage,” it read, “will meet you,” etc., etc.