To You, Mr Chips by James Hilton Read Free Book Online Page B

that he could hardly see it at all. But, no, perhaps that was too easy. He was riding Uncle Richard's tricycle instead, and even  that  overtook it. And the Other Candidate scowled and shouted after him: 'Who will rid me' (like Henry II and Thomas à Becket in the history book) 'of this turbulent young man who rides a tricycle so fast that I cannot catch him up in my motor-car?' (Eight knights sprang forward and ran after Gerald, but they could not catch him.)
    Actually Gerald spent most of his time in the streets near Uncle Richard's house. Sometimes, if it were raining, he played in the greenhouse; there were red and blue panes of glass in the greenhouse door. If you looked through the red, everything was hot and stormy; if you looked through the blue, it was like night-time. That was very wonderful.
    One day he had a tremendous adventure. Browdley lies in a valley, and beyond the town, steepening as it rises, there is a green-brown lazy-looking mountain called Mickle. A few scattered farms occupy the lower slopes, and at one of these, Jones's Farm, it had been arranged that Gerald and Olive should leave some bills. A pony-cart drew up outside Uncle Richard's house soon after breakfast, and the journey began at a steady trot through street after street that Gerald had never been in before. The horse swished its tail from side to side, waving a red rosette tied on to it; big posters decorated the cart. The man who drove was called Fred. It was a lovely blue sunshiny morning, and when they had climbed a little way and looked back, they could see all Browdley flat below them, covered with a thin smoke-cloud, the factory chimneys sticking out of it like pins in a pincushion. Above them, very big now, the mountain lifted up. Gerald had never been close to a mountain before. He felt madly happy. The lane narrowed to a stony track where Fred had to get down several times to open gates. At last they reached the farmhouse where Mrs. Jones lived. She was standing at the doorway wiping her arms on an apron and smiling at them; she was very fat and had hair piled up on top of her head. When Gerald and Olive got down from the cart she hugged them. 'Well . . . well . . . well . . .' she began, leading them inside the house; and just as they got into the kitchen a tabby cat suddenly moved from the hearthrug towards Gerald, tail erect. Gerald loved cats and stooped to stroke it, but he hadn't to stoop far, because (so the thought came to him) the cat was quite as large as a dog. Then he reflected that that wasn't a very sensible comparison, because dogs could be of all sizes, whereas cats had only one size, whatever size they were. Was that the way to put it? Anyway, Mrs. Jones's cat was a monster. It lifted up its head and met his hand in a warm, eager pressure that was beautiful to him. 'Isn't she a big pussy?' said Mrs. Jones, standing with her fists at 'hips firm,' as they called it at Grayshott.
    'She's a big cat,' said Gerald gravely.
    'Her name's Nib,' continued Mrs. Jones, and began to say 'Nibby, Nibby, Nibby,' in a high-pitched voice. But the cat, after one shrewd upward glance, knew that this was all nonsense, and continued to heave up to Gerald's hand. While Gerald was thus entranced, Olive remembered the bills they had brought and handed them over. 'Lawks-a-mussy,' said Mrs. Jones, glancing at them, 'it's Jones as'll read these, not me. A Liberal 'e is, that's very sure, even if it was his dyin' day.'
    Then she waddled away to a farther room, the cat abruptly following her, and presently returned with pieces of cake, glasses, and a jug. 'Nettle-drink,' she said. The cat was purring loudly. 'Sup it up--it'll do you good.'
    Gerald was looking at the mountain through the doorway. In the sunlight it looked as if it were moving towards him.
    'Is it the highest mountain in England?' he asked.
    'Nay, that I can't say for certain--it'll happen not be as high as some on 'em.'
    'Isn't it the highest mountain of anywhere?' asked Gerald