Types of Prose Narratives: A Text-Book for the Story WriterFansler, Harriott Ely
General
Types of Prose Narratives: A Text-Book for the Story Writer
Fansler, Harriott Ely
English prose literature; Storytelling
When he heard a voice thus calling to him he was standing at the door
of his box with a flag in his hand, furled around its short pole. One
would have thought, considering the nature of the ground, that he could
not have doubted from what quarter the voice came; but, instead of
looking up to where I stood oh the top of the steep cutting nearly over
his head, he turned himself about and looked down the line. There was
something remarkable in his manner of doing so, though I could not have
said for my life what. But I know it was remarkable enough to attract
my notice, even though his figure was foreshortened and shadowed down
in the deep trench, and mine was high above him, so steeped in the glow
of an angry sunset that I had shadowed my eyes with my hand before I
saw him at all.
"Halloa! Below!"
From looking down the line he turned himself about again and, raising
his eyes, saw my figure high above him.
"Is there any path by which I can come down and speak to you?"
He looked up at me without replying, and I looked down at him without
pressing him too soon with a repetition of my idle question. Just then
there came a vague vibration in the earth and air, quickly changing
into a violent pulsation, and an oncoming rush that caused me to start
back as though it had force to draw me down. When such vapor as rose
to my height from this rapid train had passed me and was skimming away
over the landscape, I looked down again and saw him refurling the flag
he had shown while the train went by.
I repeated my inquiry. After a pause, during which he seemed to regard
me with fixed attention, he motioned with his rolled-up flag towards a
point on my level, some two or three hundred yards distant. I called
down to him, "All right!" and made for that point. There, by dint
of looking closely about me, I found a rough zigzag descending path
notched out, which I followed.
The cutting was extremely deep and unusually precipitate. It was made
through a clammy stone that became oozier and wetter as I went down.
For these reasons I found the way long enough to recall a singular air
of reluctance or compulsion with which he had pointed out the path.
When I came down low enough upon the zigzag descent to see him again,
I saw that he was standing between the rails on the way by which the
train had lately passed, in an attitude as if he were waiting for me to
appear. He had his left hand at his chin, and that left elbow rested on
his right hand, crossed over his breast. His attitude was one of such
expectant watchfulness that I stopped a moment, wondering at it.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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