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
When the auction was over, I paid my bill and had my goods hoisted on
to a trolly, the porter undertaking to deliver them for two shillings.
I found that I had over-estimated the cost of furnishing, for the total
expense was little more than three pounds. We walked round to Oakley
Villa, and I proudly deposited all my goods in the hall. And here came
another extraordinary example of the kindness of the poorer classes. The
porter when I had paid him went out to his trolly and returned with a
huge mat of oakum, as ugly a thing as I have ever set eyes upon. This he
laid down inside my door, and then without a word, brushing aside every
remonstrance or attempt at thanks, he vanished away with his trolly into
the night.
Next morning I came round to my house--MY house, my boy!--for good
and all, after paying off my landlady. Her bill came to more than I
expected, for I only had breakfast and tea, always “dining out” as I
majestically expressed it. However, it was a relief to me to get it
settled, and to go round with my box to Oakley Villas. An ironmonger had
fixed my plate on to the railings for half-a-crown the evening before,
and there it was, glittering in the sun, when I came round. It made me
quite shy to look at it, and I slunk into the house with a feeling that
every window in the street had a face in it.
But once inside, there was so much to be done that I did not know what
I should turn to first. I bought a one-and-ninepenny broom and set to
work. You notice that I am precise about small sums, because just there
lies the whole key of the situation. In the yard I found a zinc pail
with a hole in it, which was most useful, for by its aid I managed to
carry up all the jaws with which my kitchen was heaped. Then with my new
broom, my coat hung on a gas-bracket and my shirt sleeves turned to the
elbow, I cleaned out the lower rooms and the hall, brushing the refuse
into the yard. After that I did as much for the upper floor, with the
result that I brought several square yards of dust down into the hall
again, and undid my previous cleaning. This was disheartening, but at
least it taught me to begin at the furthest point in future. When I had
finished, I was as hot and dirty as if it were half-time at a football
match. I thought of our tidy charwoman at home, and realised what
splendid training she must be in.
Then came the arranging of the furniture. The hall was easily managed,
for the planks were of a dark colour, which looked well of themselves.
My oakum mat and my umbrella stand were the only things in it; but
I bought three pegs for sixpence, and fastened them up at the side,
completing the effect by hanging my two hats upon them. Finally, as the
expanse of bare floor was depressing, I fixed one of my curtains about
halfway down it, draping it back, so that it had a kind of oriental
look, and excited a vague idea of suites of apartments beyond. It was a
fine effect, and I was exceedingly proud of it.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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