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Updated: May 21, 2025
Nor is it necessary to deny that the frequent intercalations and suspensions of his narrative, racy and suggestive as they are, and overflowing with feeling, will fret a modern reader who is always "on time," like an express-man, and is quite as regardless of what may be expressed. "Titan" is not a novel in the way that Charles Reade's, or Eugene Sue's, or Victor Hugo's books are novels.
Baynes, and all the rest of the deplorable bevy rest like nightmares upon our memory. Dickens always made the shrew laughable, so that we can hardly spare pity for the poor Snagsbys and Raddles and Crupps, or any of her victims in that wonderful gallery; but Thackeray's, Trollope's, Charles Reade's, Mrs.
Jeff Moore happened to turn just in time to see the muzzle of the shotgun turned fully on Tom Reade's waist line, and Ashby's forefinger resting on one of the triggers. Bang! spoke the gun, a sheet of flame leaped forth. Tom Reade did not even start. All his nerve had come to the surface in that instant.
He had a great respect for Reade's intellect, though he did not always show it. The next day was the day of the Inter-House cross-country race. It was always fixed for the afternoon after Sports Day, a most inconvenient time for it, as everybody who had exerted or over-exerted himself the afternoon before was unable to do himself justice.
"The canoe is done for!" he gasped. Too-oot! too-oot! too-oot! The steam launch was now speeding to the scene, its whistle screeching at a rate calculated to inform everyone in Gridley of another river disaster. Up came Greg, then Dave. Tom Reade's head appeared down stream. Harry Hazelton bobbed up not six feet from Dick. Hazelton blew out a mouthful of water, then called: "Everyone up, Dick?"
Seymour so much that I was hurt when I found that she had instructed Charles Reade to tell Nelly Terry "not to paint her face" in the daytime, and I was young enough to enjoy revenging myself in my own way. We used to play childish games at Charles Reade's house sometimes, and with "Follow my leader" came my opportunity.
In the morning we were upon the North Sea, rolling with a short, nauseating motion, under a dismal, rainy sky. "It always rains when you leave Hull," said the mate, "and it always rains when you come back to it." I divided my time between sea sickness and Charles Reade's novel of "Never too Late to Mend," a cheery companion under such circumstances.
"Each one of us can carry some of the food," Dick replied. Then his eye, roving from face to face, took in the fact that his chums were not impressed with the proposed method of transportation. "Cheer up, fellows," he begged. "You'll find that it will be pretty easy, after all." "I'd rather believe you, Dick, than have it proved to me," was Tom Reade's dejected answer.
The contrast of these subjects illustrates admirably a curious combination in Reade's genius which, for the matter of that, might be independently exemplified from either book.
The talk had proceeded in Spanish, and they had been able to follow it. As for the mine manager, his bronzed face was distorted with rage. The veins near his forehead were swelling. With a sudden roar, Pedro Gato sprang forward, aiming a blow with his open right hand at Reade's face. Bump! That blow failed to land. It was Gato, instead, who landed.
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