The Stark Munro Letters: Being series of twelve letters written by J. Stark Munro, M.B., to his friend and former fellow-student, Herbert Swanborough, of Lowell, Massachusetts, during the years 1881-1884Doyle, Arthur Conan
General
The Stark Munro Letters: Being series of twelve letters written by J. Stark Munro, M.B., to his friend and former fellow-student, Herbert Swanborough, of Lowell, Massachusetts, during the years 1881-1884
Doyle, Arthur Conan
Epistolary fiction
For the remainder of the evening his fixed delusion was that I had come
to serve under him; and he read me long rambling lectures about ship’s
discipline, still always addressing me as “Dr. Munro, sir.” At last,
however, his conversation became unbearable--a foul young man is odious,
but a foul old one is surely the most sickening thing on earth. One
feels that the white upon the hair, like that upon the mountain, should
signify a height attained. I rose and bade him good-night, with a last
impression of him leaning back in his dressing-gown, a sodden cigar-end
in the corner of his mouth, his beard all slopped with whisky, and his
half-glazed eyes looking sideways after me with the leer of a satyr. I
had to go into the street and walk up and down for half-an-hour before I
felt clean enough to go to bed.
Well, I wanted to see no more of my neighbour, but in he came as I was
sitting at breakfast, smelling like a bar-parlour, with stale whisky
oozing at every pore.
“Good morning, Dr. Munro, sir,” said he, holding out a twitching hand.
“I compliment you, sir! You look fresh, ---- fresh, and me with a head
like a toy-shop. We had a pleasant, quiet evening, and I took nothing to
hurt, but it is the ---- relaxing air of this place that settles me. I
can’t bear up against it. Last year it gave me the horrors, and I expect
it will again. You’re off house-hunting, I suppose?”
“I start immediately after breakfast.”
“I take a cursed interest in the whole thing. You may think it a ----
impertinence, but that’s the way I’m made. As long as I can steam I’ll
throw a rope to whoever wants a tow. I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Dr.
Munro, sir. I’ll stand on one tack if you’ll stand on the other, and
I’ll let you know if I come across anything that will do.”
There seemed to be no alternative between taking him with me, or letting
him go alone; so I could only thank him and let him have carte blanche.
Every night he would turn up, half-drunk as a rule, having, I believe,
walked his ten or fifteen miles as conscientiously as I had done. He
came with the most grotesque suggestions.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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