Thirty Strange Stories. H. G. Wells

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       H. G. Wells

      Thirty Strange Stories

      Published by Good Press, 2019

       [email protected]

      EAN 4057664108258

Table of Contents

       THE STRANGE ORCHID

       ÆPYORNIS ISLAND

       THE PLATTNER STORY

       THE ARGONAUTS OF THE AIR

       THE STORY OF THE LATE MR. ELVESHAM

       THE STOLEN BACILLUS

       THE RED ROOM

       A MOTH (GENUS UNKNOWN)

       IN THE ABYSS

       UNDER THE KNIFE

       THE RECONCILIATION

       A SLIP UNDER THE MICROSCOPE

       IN THE AVU OBSERVATORY

       THE TRIUMPHS OF A TAXIDERMIST

       A DEAL IN OSTRICHES

       THE RAJAH’S TREASURE

       THE STORY OF DAVIDSON’S EYES

       I

       II

       III

       IV

       V

       THE CONE

       THE PURPLE PILEUS

       A CATASTROPHE

       LE MARI TERRIBLE

       THE APPLE

       THE SAD STORY OF A DRAMATIC CRITIC

       THE JILTING OF JANE

       THE LOST INHERITANCE

       POLLOCK AND THE PORROH MAN

       THE SEA RAIDERS

       I

       II

       III

       IN THE MODERN VEIN AN UNSYMPATHETIC LOVE STORY

       THE LORD OF THE DYNAMOS

       THE TREASURE IN THE FOREST

      THIRTY STRANGE STORIES

THE STRANGE ORCHID

       Table of Contents

      The buying of orchids always has in it a certain speculative flavour. You have before you the brown shrivelled lump of tissue, and for the rest you must trust your judgment, or the auctioneer, or your good-luck, as your taste may incline. The plant may be moribund or dead, or it may be just a respectable purchase, fair value for your money, or perhaps—for the thing has happened again and again—there slowly unfolds before the delighted eyes of the happy purchaser, day after day, some new variety, some novel richness, a strange twist of the labellum, or some subtler colouration or unexpected mimicry. Pride, beauty, and profit blossom together on one delicate green spike, and, it may be, even immortality. For the new miracle of Nature may stand in need of a new specific name, and what so convenient as that of its discoverer? “Johnsmithia”! There have been worse names.

      It was perhaps the hope of some such happy discovery that made Winter-Wedderburn such a frequent attendant at these sales—that hope, and also, maybe, the fact that he had nothing else of the slightest interest to do in the world. He was a shy, lonely, rather ineffectual man, provided with just enough income to keep off the spur of necessity, and not enough nervous energy to make him seek any exacting employments. He might have collected stamps or coins, or translated Horace, or bound books, or invented new species of diatoms. But, as it happened, he grew orchids, and had one ambitious little hothouse.

      “I have a fancy,” he said over his coffee, “that something is going to happen to me to-day.” He spoke—as he moved and thought—slowly.

      “Oh, don’t say that!” said his housekeeper—who was also his remote cousin. For “something happening” was a euphemism that meant only one thing to her.

      “You misunderstand me. I mean nothing unpleasant—though what I do mean I scarcely know.

      “To-day,” he continued after a pause, “Peters are going to sell a batch of plants from the Andamans and the Indies. I shall go up and see what they have. It may be I shall buy something good, unawares. That may be it.”

      He passed his cup for his second cupful of coffee.