The Monkey's Paw

          Without, the night was cold and wet, but in the small parlour of Laburnam Villa the blinds were drawn and the fire burned brightly. Father and son were at chess, the former, who possessed ideas about the game involving radical changes, put his king into such sharp and unnecessary perils that it even provoked comment from the white-haired old lady knitting placidly by the fire.
           "Hark at the wind," said Mr. White, who, having seen a fatal mistake after it was too late, was amiably desirous of preventing his son from seeing it.
           "I'm listening," said the latter, grimly surveying the board as he stretched out his hand. "Check."
           "I should hardly think that he'd come to-night," said his father, with his hand poised over the board.
           "Mate," replied the son.
           "That's the worst of living so far out," bawled Mr. White, with sudden and unlooked-for violence; "of all the beastly, slushy, out-of-the-way places to live in, this is the worst. Pathway's a bog, and the road's a torrent. I don't know what people are thinking about. I suppose because only two houses on the road are let, they think it doesn't matter."
           "Never mind, dear," said his wife soothingly; "perhaps you'll win the next one."
           Mr. White looked up sharply, just in time to intercept a knowing glance between mother and son. The words died away on his lips, and he hid a guilty grin in his thin grey beard.
           "There he is," said Herbert White, as the gate banged loudly and heavy footsteps came toward the door.
           The old man rose with hospitable haste, and opening the door, was heard condoling with the new arrival. The new arrival also condoled with himself, so that Mrs. White said, "Tut, tut!" and coughed gently as her husband entered the room, followed by a tall burly man, beady of eye and rubicund of visage.

          Outside, the night was cold and wet, but in the small parlor of Laburnam Villa, the blinds were drawn, and the fire burned brightly. Father and son were at chess, the former, who possessed ideas about the game involving radical changes, put his king into such sharp and unnecessary perils that it even spurred comment from the white-haired old lady knitting serenely by the fire.
           "Heed the wind," said Mr. White, who, having seen a fatal mistake after it was too late, was good-naturedly desirous of preventing his son from seeing it.
           "I'm listening," said the latter, grimly surveying the board as he stretched out his hand. "Check."
           "I should hardly think that he'd come tonight," said his father, hand poised over the board.
           "Mate," replied the son.
           "That’s the worst of living so far out," bawled Mr. White with sudden and unlooked-for violence. "Of all the beastly, slushy, out-of-the-way places to live in, this is the worst. The pathway's a bog, and the road's a torrent. I don't know what people are thinking. I suppose because there are only two houses on the road being used, they think it doesn't matter.”
           "Never mind, dear," said his wife soothingly. "Perhaps you'll win the next one."
           Mr. White looked up sharply, just in time to intercept a knowing glance between mother and son. The words died away on his lips, and he hid a guilty grin in his thin grey beard.
           "There he is," said Herbert White as the gate banged loudly and heavy footsteps came toward the door.
           The old man rose with haste and, opening the door, was heard consoling the new arrival. Mrs. White said, "Tut, tut!" as she coughed gently. Her husband entered, followed by a tall burly man with beady eyes and a red face. "Sergeant-Major Morris," he said, introducing him.

          Outside, the night was cold and wet, but in the small parlor of Laburnam Villa, the blinds were drawn, and the fire burned brightly. Father and son were playing chess. The father possessed ideas about the game involving extreme changes and put his king in unnecessary dangers. The white-haired old lady knitting by the fire cannot help but comment.
           "Heed the wind," said Mr. White. He saw a fatal mistake and wished that his son would not see it.
           "I'm listening," said the latter, seriously surveying the board as he stretched out his hand. "Check."
           "I hardly think he'd come tonight," said his father with his hand over the board.
           "Mate," replied the son.
           "That’s the worst part of living so far out," bawled Mr. White with sudden and unexpected violence. "Of all the beastly, slushy, out-of-the-way places to live in, this is the worst. The pathway's a bog, and the road's a torrent. I suppose because only two houses on the road are being used, they think it doesn't matter."
           "Never mind, dear," said his wife soothingly. "Perhaps you'll win the next one."
           Mr. White looked up sharply, just in time to see a knowing glance between mother and son. The words died away on his lips, and he hid a guilty grin in his thin grey beard.
           "There he is," said Herbert White as the gate banged loudly and heavy footsteps came toward the door.
           The old man rose quickly and, opening the door, was heard comforting the new arrival. Mrs. White said, "Tut, tut!" as she coughed gently. Her husband entered the room, followed by a tall and strong man with beady eyes and a red face. "Sergeant-Major Morris," he said, introducing him.

          Outside, the night was cold and wet. In a small room of Laburnam Villa, the blinds were drawn and the fire burned brightly. A father and his son were playing chess. The father kept placing his king into dangerous spots. The white-haired old lady knitting near the fire could not help but notice .
           "Listen to the wind," said Mr. White. He made a big mistake when he moved his king. He hoped that his son would not see it.
           "I'm listening," said the son. He looked at the board seriously and made his move. "Check."
           "I don't think he will come tonight," said his father with his hand over the board.
           "Mate," replied the son.
           "That's the worst part of living in this place," yelled Mr. White. "This is the worst place to live. The roads are bad."
           "Never mind, dear," said his wife softly. "Perhaps you'll win the next game."
           Mr. White quickly looked up. He saw his wife and his son give each other a look. He stopped speaking, and had a guilty grin on his face.
           "There he is," said Herbert White. The gate banged loudly and they could hear heavy footsteps come toward the door.
           The old man rose quickly. He opened the door and began talking to the visitor. Inside the house, Herbert and his mother could barely hear Mr. White’s low voice. Mrs. White said, "Tut, tut!" as she coughed gently. A tall, strong-looking man followed her husband. The man had small eyes and a red face. "Sergeant-Major Morris," her husband said, introducing him.