The Plastic Age by Percy Marks (best fiction books to read TXT) 📕

That."

"You Don'T Understand. I Know That You Don'T Understand. I'Ve Been Doing

A Lot Of Thinking Since Prom,  Too. I'Ve Thought Over A Lot Of Things

That You'Ve Said To Me--About Me,  I Mean. Why,  Hugh,  You Think I'M Not

Human. I Don'T Believe You Think I Have Passions Like The Rest Of You.

Well,  I Do,  And Sometimes It'S--It'S Awful. I'M Telling You That So

You'Ll Understand That I Know How You Feel. But Love'S Beautiful To Me,

Hugh,  The Most Wonderful Thing In The World. I Was In Love With A Girl

Once--And I Know. She Didn'T Give A Hang For Me; She Thought I Was A

Baby. I Suffered Awfully; But I Know That My Love Was Beautiful,  As

Beautiful As--" He Looked Around For A Simile--"As To-Night. I Think

It'S Because Of That That I Hate Mugging And Petting And That Sort Of

Thing. I Don'T Want Beauty Debased. I Want To Fight When Orchestras Jazz

Famous Arias. Well,  Petting Is Jazzing Love; And I Hate It. Do You See

What I Mean?"

Hugh Looked At Him Wonderingly. He Didn'T Know This Norry At All. "Yes,"

He Said Slowly; "Yes,  I See What You Mean; I Think I Do,  Anyway. But

What Has It To Do With Me?"

"Well,  I Know Most Of The Fellows Pet And All That Sort Of Thing,  And

They Don'T Think Anything About It. But You'Re Different; You Love

Beautiful Things As Much As I Do. You Told Me Yourself That Jimmie

Henley Said Last Year That You Were Gifted. You Can Write And Sing And

Run,  But I'Ve Just Realized That You Aren'T Proud Of Those Things At

All; You Just Take Them For Granted. And You'Re Ashamed That You Write

Poetry. Somshire Blood Does At This

Time Run Through My Veins,  And So I Hope It Will For Some Time

Before The Circulation Of It Is Stopped.

(110) A Distinguished Soldier,  Afterwards Field-Marshal (1738-1803).

(111) Eldest Daughter Of The Earl Of Carlisle; Married,  1789,  John

Campbell,  Who Was Created First Lord Cawdor; She Died 1848.

(112) George,  Lord Morpeth,  Afterwards Sixth Earl Of Carlisle

(1773-1848). In This Correspondence Selwyn Often Refers To Him As

George. Selwyn Had A Strong Affection For Him,  And Treated Him With

Sympathy And Tact.

(113) Sir Brooke Boothby (1743-1824). One Of The Fashionable Young

Men Of The Period. He Devoted Himself Particularly,  However,  To

Literary Society,  And Published Verses,  And Political And Classical

Works. He Lived For A Time In France,  And Was A Friend Of Rousseau.

(114) Lady Holland Died On July 24Th.

(115) Stephen Fox,  First Earl Of Ilchester (1704-1776),  The Elder

Brother Of Henry,  First Lord Holland.

The Duties Of A Country Gentleman And A Member Of Parliament,  The

Boredom Of A Visit To A Constituency Could Not Always Be Avoided By

Selwyn. Thus The Two Following Letters Are Written From

Gloucestershire.

(1774,) Aug. 9,  Tuesday,  Gloucester.--I Set Out From London On

Saturday Last,  As Intended,  And Came To Matson The Next Day To

Dinner. I Found Our Learned Counsel In My Garden; He Dined With Me,

And Lay At My House,  And The Next Morning He Came With Me In My

Chaise To This Place For The Assizes. I Have Seen Little Of Him

Since,  Being Chiefly In The Grand Jury Chamber,  But I Take It For

Granted That Till This Morning That He Set Out For London His Hands

Were Full Of Business,  And The Two Men Condemned Were His Clients,

Who Were Condemned Only Par Provision Till He Had Drawn Up The Case.

This Town Has Been Very Full Of The Neighbouring Gentlemen,  And I

Suppose The Approaching Elections Have Been The Cause Of It. I Am

Not Personally Menaced With Any Opposition,  But Have A Great Dread

Of One,  Because The Contentions Among Those Who Live In The Country

And Have Nothing Else To Do But To Quarrel,  Are So Great,  That

Without Intending To Hurt Me,  They Will Stir Up Trouble And

Opposition,  Which Will Be Both Hazardous And Expensive. I Am

Tormented To Take A Part In I Know Not What,  And With I Know Not

Whom,  And My Difficulty Is To Keep Off The Solicitation Of My

Friends,  As They Call Themselves,  Who Want A Bustle,  The Expense Of

Which Is Not To Be Defrayed By Themselves.

I Do Assure You That It Is A Monstrous Oppression Of Spirits Which I

Feel,  And Which I Would Not Feel For An Hour If I Had Nobody'S

Happiness To Think Of But My Own,  Which Would Be Much More Secured

By A Total Renunciation Of Parliament,  Ministers,  And Boroughs Than

By Pursuing The Emoluments Attached To Those Connections. However,

As It Is The Last Time That I Shall Ever Have Anything To Do Of This

Kind,  I Will Endeavour To Keep Up My Spirits As Well As I Can; But I

Must Declare To You That It Is An Undertaking That Is Most Grievous

To Me,  That I Am Ashamed Of,  And That Neither The Established

Custom Of The Country [N]Or The Nature Of Our Government Does By Any

Means Reconcile To Me.

I Have Dinners Of One Sort Or Other Till Tuesday,  And Then I Purpose

To Set Out For London,  Unless Some Unforeseen Event Prevents Me.

Horry Walpole Has A Project Of Coming Into This Part Of The World

The End Of This Week,  And,  If He Does,  Of Coming To Me On Saturday

I Shall Be Glad To Converse With Anybody Whose Ideas Are More

Intelligible Than Those Of The Persons I Am Now With. But I Do Not

Depend Much Upon Seeing Him.

The Weather Is Very Fine,  And Matson In as Great Beauty As A Place

Can Be In,  But The Beauties Of It Make Very Little Impression Upon

Me. In Short,  There Is Nothing In This Eccentric Situation In Which

I Am Now That Can Afford Me The Least Pleasure,  And Everything I

Love To See In The World Is At A Distance From Me. All I Do Is So

Par Maniere D'Acquit,  Et De Si Mauvaise Grace,  That I Am Surprised

At The Civility With Which I Am Treated.

I  Mauvaise Graenty-Five Were Even A

Little Teed. To Go Around Saying That Sanford Men Are A Lot Of Muckers

Just Because A Small Fraction Of Them Acted Like Gutter-Pups Is Sheer

Bunk. The Prom Was A Drunken Brawl,  But All Sanford Men Aren'T

Drunkards--Not By A Damn Sight."

Hugh Had To Admit The Force Of Gates'S Reasoning,  And He Found Comfort

In It. He Had Been Just About Ready To Believe That All College Men And

Sanford Men In Particular Were Hardly Better Than Common Muckers. But In

The End The Comfort That He Got Was Small: He Realized Bitterly That He

Was One Of The Minority That Had Disgraced His College; He Was One Of

The Gutter-Pups. The Recognition Of That Undeniable Fact Cut Deep.

He Was Determined To Redeem Himself; He _Had_ To,  Somehow. Living A Life

Of Perfect Rectitude Was Not Enough; He Had To Do Something That Would

Win Back His Own Respect And The Respect Of His Fellows,  Which He

Thought,  Quite Absurdly,  That He Had Forfeited. So Far As He Could See,

There Was Only One Way That He Could Justify His Existence At Sanford;

That Was To Win One Of The Dashes In The Sanford-Raleigh Meet. He Clung

To That Idea With The Tenacity Of A Fanatic.

He Had Nearly A Month In Which To Train,  And Train He Did As He Never

Had Before. His Diet Became A Matter Of The Utmost Importance; A

Rub-Down Was A Holy Rite,  And The Words Of Jansen,  The Coach,  Divine

Gospel. He Placed In both Of The Preliminary Meets,  But He Knew That He

Could Do Better; He Wasn'T Yet In condition.

When The Day For The Raleigh-Sanford Meet Finally Came,  He Did Not Feel

Any Of The Nervousness That Had Spelled Defeat For Him In His Freshman

Year. He Was Stonily Calm,  Silently Determined. He Was Going To Place In

The Hundred And Win The Two-Twenty Or Die In The Attempt. No Golden

Dreams Of Breaking Records Excited Him. Calvert Of Raleigh Was Running

The Hundred Consistently In Ten Seconds And Had Been Credited With

Better Time. Hugh Had No Hopes Of Defeating Him In The Hundred,  But

There Was A Chance In The Two-Twenty. Calvert Was A Short-Distance Man,

The Shorter The Better. Two Hundred And Twenty Yards Was A Little Too

Far For Him.

Calvert Did Not Look Like A Runner. He Was A Good Two Inches Shorter

Than Hugh,  Who Lacked Nearly That Much Of Six Feet. Calvert Was Heavily

Built--A Dark,  Brawny Chap,  Both Quick And Powerful. Hugh Looked At Him

And For A Moment Hated Him. Although He Did Not Phrase It So--In Fact,

He Did Not Phrase It At All--Calvert Was His Obstacle In His Race For

Redemption.

Calvert Won The Hundred-Yard Dash In Ten Seconds Flat,  Breaking The

Sanford-Raleigh Record. Hugh,  Running Faster Than He Ever Had In His

Life,  Barely Managed To Come In Second Ahead Of His Team-Mate Murphy.

The Sanford Men Cheered Him Lustily,  But He Hardly Listened. He _Had_ To

Win The Two-Twenty.

At Last The Runners Were Called To The Starting-Line. They Danced Up And

Down The Track Flexing Their Muscles. Hugh Was Tense But More Determined

Than Nervous. Calvert Pranced Around Easily; He Seemed Entirely

Recovered From His Great Effort In The Hundred. Finally The Starter

Called Them To Their Marks. They Tried Their Spikes In The

Starting-Holes,  Scraped Them Out A Bit More,  Made A Few Trial Dashes,

And Finally Knelt In Line At The Command Of The Starter.

Hugh Expected Calvert To Lead For The First Hundred Yards; But The Last

Hundred,  That Was Where Calvert Would Weaken. Calvert Was Sure To Be

Ahead At The Beginning--But After That!

"On Your Marks.

"Set."

The Pistol Cracked. The Start Was Perfect; The Five Men Leaped Forward

Almost Exactly Together. For Once Calvert Had Not Beaten The Others Off

The Mark,  But He Immediately Drew Ahead. He Was Running Powerfully,  His

Legs Rising And Falling In exact Rhythm,  His Spikes Tearing Into The

Cinder Path. But Hugh And Murphy Were Pressing Him Close. At The End Of

The First Hundred Calvert Led By A Yard. Hugh Pounded On,  Murphy Falling

Behind Him. The Others Were Hopelessly Outclassed. Hugh Did Not Think;

He Did Not Hear A Thousand Men Shouting Hysterically,  "Cas Of This Old Building,  Which,  I Believe,  Will