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Updated: May 15, 2025
Alarms, anxieties of consciences, weak but virtuous, have always found me gentle, and almost resigned; the false scruples of hypocrites and libertines will never receive from me aught but disdain and contempt. The Verse of Berenice. Praises of Boileau. The King's Aversion to Satirical Writers. The Painter Le Brun. His Bacchus. The Waterbottle. The Pyramid of Jean Chatel Injurious to the Jesuits.
Alarms, anxieties of consciences, weak but virtuous, have always found me gentle, and almost resigned; the false scruples of hypocrites and libertines will never receive from me aught but disdain and contempt. The Verse of Berenice. Praises of Boileau. The King's Aversion to Satirical Writers. The Painter Le Brun. His Bacchus. The Waterbottle. The Pyramid of Jean Chatel Injurious to the Jesuits.
Samuel Chillip?" he asked, or remarked, again. I bowed in reply. "The author of 'The Poisoned Waterbottle' and other stories?" "Yes." "Tales of crime?" "You may call them so." "What do you know of crime?" The question startled me. In the first place, it was an extraordinary one to ask under the circumstances, and in the next, it was not an easy one to answer.
Alarms, anxieties of consciences, weak but virtuous, have always found me gentle, and almost resigned; the false scruples of hypocrites and libertines will never receive from me aught but disdain and contempt. The Verse of Berenice. Praises of Boileau. The King's Aversion to Satirical Writers. The Painter Le Brun. His Bacchus. The Waterbottle. The Pyramid of Jean Chatel Injurious to the Jesuits.
Leading lives of toil and hardship, their huts are wretched abodes built of stones and mud, their beds the ground, an iron or copper kettle hung from the roof above the fire in the centre of the cabin, a few wicker baskets, and a waterbottle of porous clay constitute their furniture.
Jerry stood looking down at him sadly, and at the end of a few minutes he filled a glass from a waterbottle and handed the water to his master, who swallowed it hurriedly. "This is too dreadful," said the latter, huskily; "too dreadful! But are you sure, my man are you sure?" "Yes, sir, sure enough!" replied Jerry, with a hoarse sob. "The miller saw him just before."
Yes, I am the author it has been said the famous author of "The Poisoned Waterbottle," "Steeped in Gore," "The Demon Detective," and other highly sensational and blood-curdling stories. But though these tales of mine have brought me some fame and a fair amount of profit, I am not particularly proud of them. I really don't know how I, so to speak, drifted into crime.
On it were my large saddle-bags packed with my belongings, also my thick overcoat, mackintosh, waterbottle, and other articles down to a bag of tobacco, a spare pipe and a box of wax matches. Moreover, the man carried my double-barrelled Express rifle and a shot-gun that could be used for ball, together with two bags of cartridges. Practically nothing belonging to me had been forgotten.
My waterbottle was nearly empty already, and the old haunting dread of thirst was beginning to fill my mind, but soon this fear left me, for within a mile I found t'samma flourishing, and at the first pile of rocks a little spring of water. Cheered and encouraged I made good progress in spite of the now blazing sun, and soon I reached the pile of rocks.
I caught hold of him and saved him from falling by lowering him down upon a stone, just as there was the soft pad, pad of naked feet behind me, and a familiar voice said: "Water, Boss. Here water, sah!" "Joeboy!" I whispered as I turned and caught a waterbottle from an extended black hand. "You here!" "Um? Yes, Boss Val. Couldn't run no more, and come away back."
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