THE MYSTERY OF SASASSA VALLEY,
By A. Conan Doyle
Do I know why Tom Donahue is called "Lucky Tom"? Yes, I do; and that is
more than one in ten of those who call him so can say. I have knocked
about a deal in my time, and seen some strange sights, but none stranger
than the way in which Tom gained that sobriquet, and his fortune with
it. For I was with him at the time. Tell it? Oh, certainly; but it is a
longish story and a very strange one; so fill up your glass again, and
light another cigar, while I try to reel it off. Yes, a very strange
one; beats some fairy stories I have heard; but it's true, sir, every
word of it. There are men alive at Cape Colony now who'll remember it
and confirm what I say. Many a time has the tale been told round the
fire in Boers' cabins from Orange state to Griqualand; yes, and out in
the bush and at the diamond-fields too.
GREGORIO, By Percy Hemingway
I—AT THE PARADISO
The Cafe Paradiso was full of people, for the inhabitants of Alexandria
had dined, and the opera season was over. The seats at every table were
occupied, and the fumes of smoke from a hundred cigars partly hid the
ladies of the orchestra. As the waiters pushed aside the swing-doors
of the buffet and staggered into the salon with whisky, absinthe, and
coffee, the click of billiard-balls was heard. The windows facing the
sea were wide open, for the heat was intense, and the murmur of the
waves mingled with the plaintive voices of the violins.
Seated by a table at the far end of the hall, Gregorio Livadas hummed
softly an accompaniment to Suppe's "Poete et Paysan," puffing from time
to time a cloudlet of blue smoke from his mouth. When the music ceased
he joined in the applause, leaning back happily in his chair as the
musicians prepared to repeat the last movement. Meanwhile his eyes
wandered idly over the faces of his neighbors.
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