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دانلود اپلیکیشن «زیبوک»

این فصل را می‌توانید به بهترین شکل و با امکانات عالی در اپلیکیشن «زیبوک» بخوانید

دانلود اپلیکیشن «زیبوک»

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برای دسترسی به این محتوا بایستی اپلیکیشن زبانشناس را نصب کنید.

متن انگلیسی فصل

CHAPTER 54

A FINE NAME INDEED

NIGHT WAS FALLING, and Peter was trotting, almost running, to keep up with Hawkins. The long-legged postman was clearly eager to be done with his rounds: he darted from house to house, dropping letters into the front-door mail slots, preoccupied with his task, which was fortunate for Peter, who was trying to remain unnoticed, blending into the homebound pedestrian throng while keeping close enough to see whether any of the envelopes was marked with an X.

He worried that he might have missed it already, which would mean that he was now following the postman away from Molly’s house. But he had no choice other than to keep trotting along, hoping he was going in the right direction, and trying to ignore the now-constant complaints of a very unhappy Tinker Bell, still imprisoned inside his filthy shirt.

It’s almost dark, she was saying. Nobody will see me now.

“Not yet,” Peter puffed. “There are too many people around.”

The postman was now striding along Bayswater Road, to the north of Kensington Palace Gardens. With each passing block, the houses were becoming larger and better-kept. And the mail sack was getting emptier. And the evening was growing darker.

Hawkins strode up the walk to a white corner house and pulled a letter from his sack. Peter, hovering on the sidewalk, strained to see the envelope: no X. The postman dropped the letter through a slot and came back down the walk. Peter looked away as the postman went past, then turned to follow him.

He was stopped by a grip on his arm, then an unwelcome voice: “Where are you going?”

Peter turned and saw Trotter, the boy who had lured him into capture by the man who wanted to make him a beggar. Peter jerked his arm free, only to feel a much more powerful, and painful, grip on his shoulder.

“I told you I’d find you,” said a low voice. Peter looked up and saw the big man who’d imprisoned him, his face contorted by a triumphant sneer.

Peter looked up Bayswater Road: the red uniform of the postman was disappearing into the gloom.

“Let me go,” Peter said, struggling. The man only tightened his grip. “LET ME GO! PLEASE, HELP!” Peter shouted, hoping to draw the attention of passersby. But with the onset of darkness, the sidewalk crowd had thinned; the few remaining pedestrians scurried past, averting their eyes from the shouting boy and the large, menacing man.

“You’ll not get away this time, boy,” the man said.

“Here, now! What’s this!” A stranger’s voice from behind Peter.

A man, apparently the occupant of the white corner house, was coming down the walkway. He was short and slight, with a large, protruding forehead, piercing eyes, and a bushy moustache. He wore an overcoat that was far too large, making him look even smaller.

“What’s the matter here?” he said.

“It’s none of your business what the matter is,” growled the big man, tightening his grip on Peter.

The small man looked at Peter. “Is that true?” he said.

Peter started to open his mouth, but was silenced by a violent yank from the massive hand on his shoulder.

“I said it’s none of your business,” said the big man, stepping threateningly forward.

The small man seemed unfazed. “Isn’t it?” he said. “Here, Porthos!”

In a moment, the reason for the small man’s confidence appeared in the form of an enormous dog bounding down the walk. It was a Saint Bernard, but to Peter it looked more like a bear. It raced toward Peter and the big man, barking ferociously. The big man drew Peter in front of him as a shield. Trotter ducked behind them both.

“Porthos, halt!” said the small man. The huge dog skidded to a stop, growling in a deep, threatening rumble, teeth bared, its eyes trained on the big man.

“Now,” said the small man mildly, speaking to Peter. “Is this man bothering you?”

Peter nodded.

“Let the boy go,” said the small man.

The big man tightened his grip on Peter’s shoulder.

“I said let him go,” said the small man. He took a step forward, and the dog moved forward with him, its growl becoming more menacing.

Peter felt the big man bracing, as if he were about to attack. But apparently he thought better of it, for suddenly he removed his hand from Peter’s shoulder.

“Now, get out of here,” said the small man, “and don’t come back.”

The big man backed away, glaring. “You wouldn’t be so brave if you didn’t have that dog,” he said.

“Ah,” said the small man, smiling, “but I do have the dog, don’t I?”

The large man spat on the ground, then turned and, with Trotter behind him, skulked off into the night.

The small man chuckled, then turned to Peter. “Are you all right?” he said.

“Yes, sir, thank you,” said Peter. “And thank you for rescuing me.”

“Happy to do it,” said the small man, petting the now-docile Porthos. “You look cold and hungry. Would you like to come inside for a hot meal by a warm fire?”

Yes! said Tinker Bell, from under Peter’s shirt.

“What was that sound?” said the small man.

“Nothing!” said Peter, clapping his hand over his shirt.

“Are you sure?” said the small man. “I could swear I heard bells.”

“No!” said Peter. “That is, I mean…I didn’t hear anything.”

“Odd,” said the small man, looking at Peter’s shirt. “Anyway, would you like to come inside?”

“No, thank you,” said Peter, tightening his grip on Tink. “I need to go. I need to find…Oh, no!” Peter looked up Bayswater Road; it was almost deserted now. There was no sign of Hawkins the postman.

“Oh, no,” repeated Peter, bringing his hand to his forehead.

“What is it?” said the small man.

“I’m trying to find somebody,” said Peter, his voice breaking. “The postman was going to her house, and now I don’t know where he’s gone.”

“Who are you trying to find?” said the small man.

“Molly Aster,” said Peter, looking up Bayswater Road.

“Aster?” said the small man. “Is she related to Lord Aster?”

Peter’s head snapped around. “Do you know where he lives?”

“Of course,” said the small man. “Everyone does in this neighborhood.”

Peter’s heart leaped. “Is it near here, then?”

“It is,” said the small man. “Quite near. It’s on Kensington Palace Gardens, not a mile from here.”

“Up this street?” said Peter, pointing up Bayswater Road.

“That’s one way,” said the man, “but if you’re in a hurry—”

“I am!” said Peter.

“Then there’s a shortcut through Kensington Gardens.” He pointed across Bayswater Road. “There’s a path that begins just there. You follow it, and it will cross two others. You want the second path to the right, then straight on ’til you see a row of fine mansions. The one you want is the largest, grandest, white one, with two towers, one at each end.”

“A white house with two towers,” repeated Peter. He turned to go, then turned back.

“Thank you,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” said the small man, still petting the huge dog. “Good luck to you.” Then, looking directly at Peter’s shirt, he added, “To both of you.”

Peter put his hand on his shirt, at a loss for words. The small man smiled.

“By the way,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“Peter,” said Peter.

“Ah, yes, Peter,” said the small man. “A fine name. I’m called James…James Barrie. But to my friends, it’s Jamie.”

Peter, not knowing what to make of this, said nothing.

The man extended his hand, and Peter shook it. “We’re friends now, you and I.”

“Thank you, again,” Peter said.

“My pleasure.”

Porthos whined. The man scratched the dog’s head and said, “And let’s not forget Porthos! Credit where credit is due.” He smiled. It was a wide smile, surprisingly big for such a small face. “Well then, Peter,” said the little man. “Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” said Peter as he turned and ran across the road.

“Don’t forget,” called Jamie, “second path to the right!” Then he turned and, with Porthos padding behind, went back to his house, muttering to himself.

“Peter,” the man said. “A fine name indeed.” CHAPTER 55

“TAKE ALL HIS AIR”

HOOK SAT INSIDE the fort walls, brooding by the fire. He watched the two boys in the bamboo cage, their lips cracked and puckered, their sad, fearful eyes trained on the cage floor. Next to them, untouched so far, sat their daily meal of starfish mush and coconut juice.

Hook was not pleased. His initial excitement over the capture of the boys had subsided into grumpiness when several days had gone by without an attempt to rescue them. It was not the caged boys Hook wanted. It was the cursed flying boy who had taken his left hand. It was Peter he dreamed of seeing strapped to a pole with a fire lit beneath him.

Hook brooded some more, his baleful gaze on the two captives. And then, as it so often did, a plan came to him.

“Smee!” he bellowed, causing the two boys to jump.

The fat little man trundled over. “Yes, Cap’n?”

“You ever been whaling, Smee?”

“No, Cap’n.”

“Timing is everything.”

“Yes, Cap’n.”

“Timing’s the difference between a hold full of blubber, or a whole lot of nothing.”

“Are you a little close to the fire, perhaps, Cap’n?”

“The whale comes up for air, you see. You have to anticipate that moment. You need to have the harpoons all set and ready.”

“Yes, Cap’n. But—”

Hook glared. He did not like to be interrupted in mid-plan. “What is it, Smee?”

“We have no harpoons.”

Hook clapped his hand to his forehead.

Smee, misinterpreting this act, went on: “We have some pistols, but they mostly don’t shoot. We have the swords, of course, but I ain’t heard of nobody killing a whale with a sword.”

Now Hook had his hand and his hook on his forehead.

“Maybe,” said Smee, “you could poke the whale in the eye with a sword. Of course he’d still have the other eye, but I b’lieve, in a whale, the other eye is way over on the other side of the head, so your one-eyed whale would swim in a circle, and you could—”

“SMEE!”

“What, Cap’n?”

“You are an idjit, Smee.”

“Aye, Cap’n.”

“If you were to engage in a battle of wits with a sponge, Smee, my money would be on the sponge.”

“Aye, Cap’n, but all I’m saying is that if we’re going to catch a whale, we—”

“I’M NOT TALKING ABOUT CATCHING A WHALE, YOU IDJIT!”

Smee frowned, not wanting to contradict the captain, but quite certain that only a minute ago he had distinctly heard the captain talking about catching a whale.

“The point,” said Hook, “is that the whale don’t surface ’til it runs out of air.”

Smee nodded tentatively.

“We haven’t taken all his air,” Hook said. “That’s our problem. We haven’t got ourselves enough bait, y’see?”

“Aye, Cap’n,” said Smee, though he did not see at all.

“Round up the men,” Hook ordered. “If two boys won’t do the trick, let’s take all his air. Let’s see what the boy does when all four of his mates go missing.”

“Aye, Cap’n,” said Smee, waddling off, wondering how a conversation that had been entirely about whales wound up involving the boy.

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