Ghost Letters by Stephen Alter Read Free Book Online Page A

come here, the boys have gone home empty-handed. His father has suggested he try some other kind of bait—crickets or worms—but Lawrence is sure that sooner or later the gleaming brass spoon and red feather will attract a trout. Stepping up to the water’s edge, he casts into the center of the pond. Meanwhile, Sikander has brought a ball of dough that he squeezes in his palm. He then breaks off a pinch to put on the hook. Moving up the bank a ways, Sikander tosses the baited hook into the clear water and sits down to wait.
    Three hours later Sikander has caught four trout and Lawrence has two. Around noon the boys set off down the hill, carrying their fish. Neither of them has had breakfast, and both are starving. Lawrence’s face is badly sunburned, almost as bright red as his curly hair.
    â€œMy father told me these fish came all the way from America,” he says.
    â€œHow?” Sikander asks in disbelief. “Did they swim here?”
    â€œNo. Ezekiel Finch, the man whose gravestone we saw by the lake, brought the trout eggs with him by ship. He built a fish hatchery here at Ambital forty years ago and stocked the lake.”
    Sikander is about to reply, but all at once, three men step out of the trees and block the path. Two are carrying guns andthe third has a sword. All of them are Europeans. The clothes they wear are soldiers’ uniforms—red coats with rickrack and bandoliers. But these are filthy and torn.
    â€œâ€˜Ello!” says the tallest of the three, in a menacing voice. He is unshaven, with bloodshot eyes. “What have we’ere?”
    Lawrence and Sikander stop in their tracks.
    â€œThey’ve caught some trout!” says the second man, who is short and squat, with one black eye and a broken tooth. He holds his sword in one hand.
    â€œWho are you?” says Lawrence, trying to sound brave but with a quaver in his voice.
    â€œWe’re soldiers, laddie. Can’t y’ see?” says the third man with a wicked laugh. “Three British Tommies are we. Tommy-one. Tommy-two. And Tommy-three. From the Duke of Dumbarton’s own Third Foot. And we’re hungry too.”
    Sikander can tell these aren’t ordinary soldiers. They look more like criminals. Tommy-one points the barrel of his musket at Sikander.
    â€œWe’ll take those fish, if y’ please,” he demands, his voice a snarl.
    â€œYou can’t have them,” says Lawrence. “They’re ours!”
    The three Tommies look at one another seriously for a moment, then break into loud guffaws.
    â€œAnd who’s going to stop us, laddie?”
    â€œMy father,” says Lawrence, turning even redder than he was before. “Mr. Roderick Sleeman. He owns the tea estate, just down the path from here. He’ll call the police.”
    â€œWill’e, now?” says Tommy-one.
    â€œHow interesting,” says Tommy-two.
    â€œBlimey!” says Tommy-three. “I’d love a cuppa tea. Is’e rich, your father?”
    Sikander is about to stop Lawrence from answering, but his friend blurts out, “Yes, of course he is. He’s a lot richer than you.”
    â€œThen maybe we’ll take more than just the trout …,” says Tommy-one, an evil glint in his eye.
    Before Lawrence can move, Tommy-two steps forward and grabs him with one hand, holding the sword to his neck.
    â€œWhat do we do with the other one?” says Tommy-three.
    â€œShoot’im.”
    â€œNaw. A waste of powder.”
    Tommy-three snatches the fish.
    â€œLet my friend go!” Sikander shouts.
    â€œOy! Blister my kidneys! He speaks the Queen’s Inglish,” says Tommy-two.
    â€œI suppose your father isn’t rich as well, is’e?”
    Sikander glares at him, but Tommy-three presses the blade of his sword against Lawrence’s throat.
    â€œNot by the look of ’im,” says Tommy-one. “Get lost. Go on, before I blow yer brains