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
This pugnacious side of his character would be worthily used sometimes.
I remember that an address which was being given to us by an eminent
London specialist was much interrupted by a man in the front row, who
amused himself by interjecting remarks. The lecturer appealed to his
audience at last. “These interruptions are insufferable, gentlemen,”
said he; “will no one free me from this annoyance?” “Hold your
tongue--you, sir, on the front bench,” cried Cullingworth, in his
bull’s bellow. “Perhaps you’ll make me,” said the fellow, turning a
contemptuous face over his shoulder. Cullingworth closed his note-book,
and began to walk down on the tops of the desks to the delight of the
three hundred spectators. It was fine to see the deliberate way in which
he picked his way among the ink bottles. As he sprang down from the last
bench on to the floor, his opponent struck him a smashing blow full in
the face. Cullingworth got his bulldog grip on him, however, and rushed
him backwards out of the class-room. What he did with him I don’t know,
but there was a noise like the delivery of a ton of coals; and the
champion of law and order returned, with the sedate air of a man who had
done his work. One of his eyes looked like an over-ripe damson, but we
gave him three cheers as he made his way back to his seat. Then we went
on with the dangers of Placenta Praevia.
He was not a man who drank hard, but a little drink would have a very
great effect upon him. Then it was that the ideas would surge from his
brain, each more fantastic and ingenious than the last. And if ever
he did get beyond the borderland he would do the most amazing things.
Sometimes it was the fighting instinct that would possess him,
sometimes the preaching, and sometimes the comic, or they might come
in succession, replacing each other so rapidly as to bewilder his
companions. Intoxication brought all kinds of queer little peculiarities
with it. One of them was that he could walk or run perfectly straight,
but that there always came a time when he unconsciously returned upon
his tracks and retraced his steps again. This had a strange effect
sometimes, as in the instance which I am about to tell you.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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