Fiction Books

“The usual quiet of North Shore was this morning rudely dispelled by the alarming rumour p. 2that a crime of an unusual kind had been committed in the house of Mrs. Delfosse, Lavender Bay.

Mr. Murchison had been the rector of the small parish of Barnley, distant perhaps a hundred miles from the city of C——, the great commercial center of the West, and having attended faithfully to his duties for a series of years, had been stricken at last with the dread pangs of consumption...

“God made the country and man made the town.”

Tumultuous “Casey” Ryan had driven horses since he could stand on his toes, and as one of Nevada’s last stage-drivers speed was his middle name. Wherefore the ubiquitous Ford finally claimed him for its own—and so did The Widow at Lucky Lode Mine. A combination prolific of complications...

Taking the course of the vessel he glances at the two men lashed by the tiller to prevent their being washed overboard by the waves that have been chasing the ship ever since she left the white cliffs of England, and remarks: “Better cast yourselves loose lads, we are in [6]quieter water now...

“I’d hate to live up here in summer, Bert,” said Ted Trafford, carefully easing his five feet and ten inches of tired, aching body to the window-seat and turning a perspiring face to the faint breeze that entered. “It must be hotter than Tophet.”

All three turned and looked at the weatherbeaten side of the frame building adjoining the house—the store that for half a century had been known as “Harman’s.” It had been a great place in its day, had Harman’s. Almost the first recollections of all three children were connected with the...

I had hard work to prevent myself laughing at the man to his face; and it is no light matter to laugh at these self-satisfied, bullying officials in Russian Poland. Some of them have too much power.

The mouth of the canyon was darkened with shadows when the bull elk came stealing down the brown trail through the dusky thicket. In all this mountain realm, a land where the wild things of the forest still held sway, there was no creature of more majestic bearing or noble beauty.

The person to whom he spoke was a negro, young in years but of colossal size; as he sat amidships in the skiff, with the sheet rope in his hand, his sleeveless shirt showing his mighty arms bare to the shoulder, he resembled a statue of Hercules, cut out of black marble.