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“A slave with ten darics!” bawled the officious Spartan, never relaxing his grip. “Hark you, friends, it’s plain as day. Dexippus of Corinth has a Syrian lad like this. The young scoundrel’s robbed his master and is running away.” “That’s it! A runaway! To the temple with him!” chimed a dozen. The prisoner’s outcries were drowned.
"Oh, you dear papa, you are just the kindest father that ever was made!" she cried, in an ecstasy of delight, and hugging him with all her strength. "Ah, but if you choke me to death," he said laughingly, "I can do nothing for you." "Oh, papa, please excuse me!" she exclaimed, relaxing her hold. "Did I hurt you? oh, I am very, very sorry!"
The duty of responding to these appeals forbade the indulgence of engrossing sorrow, and caused her to realize that, when work for the Master was pressing on every hand, and one of the laborers had fallen in the field, his fellow-laborers, instead of relaxing their efforts, should feel it imperative on them, if possible, to redouble their diligence.
The cat still purred, tightening and relaxing her padded claws over his knee. "Shall I tell you all about her, cat? She is very beautiful your mistress," he murmured drowsily, "and her hair is heavy as burnished gold. I could paint her, not on canvas for I should need shades and tones and hues and dyes more splendid than the iris of a splendid rainbow.
"'E was always partic'lar about early risin' . . . An' I don't know what you feel like, Arthur Miles, but I could do with breakfast." "And a wash," suggested the boy. "It don't look appetisin' not even if we knew 'ow to swim," said Tilda, relaxing her watch for an instant only, and studying the water in the basin.
The man sank forward from the hips, relaxing entirely, and with a groan dropped his head on her knee. She leaned over him and pressed her lips softly and lingeringly to his hair. "Come, let us go," she said, almost in a whisper. She caught her breath in a half-sob, then tightened her lips as she rose. His face was white to ghastliness, so shaken was he by the struggle through which he had passed.
They both stepped away from him, panting, relaxing their shoulders, eyeing the young captain with as much curiosity as apprehension. Suddenly there was an added commotion at the front door. Tunis saw a policeman enter. The coarse-featured proprietor of the restaurant instantly recovered all his courage. "This way, officer! This way!" he cried. "Here's the man."
A short story is, or should be, a simple thing; it aims at producing one single, vivid effect; it has to seize the attention at the outset, and never relaxing, gather it together more and more until the climax is reached. The limits of the human capacity to attend closely therefore set a limit to it; it must explode and finish before interruption occurs or fatigue sets in.
The father, a short, shock-headed fellow, sat in one corner; the mother, who, like nine-tenths of all the matrons we had seen between Lapland and Stockholm, gave promise of additional humanity, greeted us with a comical, dipping courtesy a sudden relaxing and stiffening again of the muscles of the knees which might be introduced as a novelty into our fashionable circles.
They say, that when the skill and care of men rescue a drowned wretch from extinction, and warm the flickering spirit into steady flame, such pain it is, the blood forcing its way along the dry channels, and the heavily-ticking nerves, and the sullen heart the struggle of life and death in him grim death relaxing his gripe; such pain it is, he cries out no thanks to them that pull him by inches from the depths of the dead river.
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