The Whip Hand - A Tale of the Pine Country

Fiction & Literature, Literary
Cover of the book The Whip Hand - A Tale of the Pine Country by Samuel Merwin, anboco
View on Amazon View on AbeBooks View on Kobo View on B.Depository View on eBay View on Walmart
Author: Samuel Merwin ISBN: 9783736420618
Publisher: anboco Publication: June 18, 2017
Imprint: Language: English
Author: Samuel Merwin
ISBN: 9783736420618
Publisher: anboco
Publication: June 18, 2017
Imprint:
Language: English

PROLOGUE—The Young Man at the Stern A THICK, wet night on the southwest coast of Lake Michigan a dozen years ago; a wind that sweeps over the pitching lake and on over the dim white beach with a rush that whirls the sand up and away. Trees are bending up there on the bluff. The sand and the rain are in the air—or do we feel the spray from yonder line of breakers, a hundred yards away? And deep in a mudhole on the lonely road that skirts the bluff—the four horses, fetlock-deep in the sticky clay, straining forward like heroes, the members of the student crew in their oilskins throwing their weight on the wheels of the truck—is the Evanston surf-boat. The driver has pulled his sou'wester hat down on his neck behind and swung the U. S. L. S. S. lantern on his arm; he stands beside the forward wheel, cracks his long whip and swears vigorously. "Hold on a minute, boys," he calls over his shoulder; and he must shout it twice before he is heard. "Whoa, there! Stand back! Now, boys, get your breath and try it together. When I call——— Now. All ready! Let her go!" The men throw themselves on the spokes, the horses plunge forward under the lash of the whip. A moment of straining—an uncertain moment—then the wheels turn slowly forward, the horses' feet draw out with a sucking sound, and the boat rolls ahead. The driver unbuttons his oilskins at the waist and reaches beneath an under coat for his watch. They have been out two hours; distance covered, two miles. Before him is darkness, save where the lantern throws a yellow circle on the ground; behind him is darkness, save for the white boat, the little group of panting, grunting men, and, a long mile to the southward, the gleaming eye of the Grosse Pointe lighthouse, now red, now white. But somewhere in the darkness ahead, somewhere beyond the white of the breakers, a big steamer is pounding herself to pieces on the bar. So he buttons his coat and shifts the reins and swears at the horses.

View on Amazon View on AbeBooks View on Kobo View on B.Depository View on eBay View on Walmart

PROLOGUE—The Young Man at the Stern A THICK, wet night on the southwest coast of Lake Michigan a dozen years ago; a wind that sweeps over the pitching lake and on over the dim white beach with a rush that whirls the sand up and away. Trees are bending up there on the bluff. The sand and the rain are in the air—or do we feel the spray from yonder line of breakers, a hundred yards away? And deep in a mudhole on the lonely road that skirts the bluff—the four horses, fetlock-deep in the sticky clay, straining forward like heroes, the members of the student crew in their oilskins throwing their weight on the wheels of the truck—is the Evanston surf-boat. The driver has pulled his sou'wester hat down on his neck behind and swung the U. S. L. S. S. lantern on his arm; he stands beside the forward wheel, cracks his long whip and swears vigorously. "Hold on a minute, boys," he calls over his shoulder; and he must shout it twice before he is heard. "Whoa, there! Stand back! Now, boys, get your breath and try it together. When I call——— Now. All ready! Let her go!" The men throw themselves on the spokes, the horses plunge forward under the lash of the whip. A moment of straining—an uncertain moment—then the wheels turn slowly forward, the horses' feet draw out with a sucking sound, and the boat rolls ahead. The driver unbuttons his oilskins at the waist and reaches beneath an under coat for his watch. They have been out two hours; distance covered, two miles. Before him is darkness, save where the lantern throws a yellow circle on the ground; behind him is darkness, save for the white boat, the little group of panting, grunting men, and, a long mile to the southward, the gleaming eye of the Grosse Pointe lighthouse, now red, now white. But somewhere in the darkness ahead, somewhere beyond the white of the breakers, a big steamer is pounding herself to pieces on the bar. So he buttons his coat and shifts the reins and swears at the horses.

More books from anboco

Cover of the book A History of the United States by Samuel Merwin
Cover of the book A General's Letters to His Son on Minor Tactics by Samuel Merwin
Cover of the book Sea Power in its Relations to the War of 1812 by Samuel Merwin
Cover of the book Highways and Byways in the Border by Samuel Merwin
Cover of the book The History of England by Samuel Merwin
Cover of the book The Life of Nelson I by Samuel Merwin
Cover of the book Days to Remember: The British Empire in the Great War I by Samuel Merwin
Cover of the book The Letters of Anne Gilchrist and Walt Whitman by Samuel Merwin
Cover of the book Just So Stories by Samuel Merwin
Cover of the book Here and Now Story Book - Two- to seven-year-olds by Samuel Merwin
Cover of the book Lightships and Lighthouses by Samuel Merwin
Cover of the book A Story of the Golden Age by Samuel Merwin
Cover of the book Songs From Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass by Samuel Merwin
Cover of the book The Lives of the Saints I by Samuel Merwin
Cover of the book The Conspirators: The Chevalier d'Harmental by Samuel Merwin
We use our own "cookies" and third party cookies to improve services and to see statistical information. By using this website, you agree to our Privacy Policy