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Dangerous Waters: An Adventure on the Titanic
Di Gregory Mone
Azioni libro
Inizia a leggere- Editore:
- Macmillan Publishers
- Pubblicato:
- Mar 13, 2012
- ISBN:
- 9781429961844
- Formato:
- Libro
Descrizione
A stowaway, a stolen book, a murderous villain: an adventure on the most famous shipwreck in history.
The great ocean liner Titanic is preparing to cross the Atlantic. On board is a sinister thief bent on stealing a rare book that may be the key to unlocking infinite treasure, a wealthy academic traveling home to America with his rare book collection, and Patrick Waters, a twelve-year-old Irish boy who is certain that his job as a steward on the unsinkable ship will be the adventure of a lifetime. In Dangerous Waters, disguises, capers, and danger abound as the ship makes its way toward that fateful iceberg where Patrick will have to summon all his wits in order to survive.
Informazioni sul libro
Dangerous Waters: An Adventure on the Titanic
Di Gregory Mone
Descrizione
A stowaway, a stolen book, a murderous villain: an adventure on the most famous shipwreck in history.
The great ocean liner Titanic is preparing to cross the Atlantic. On board is a sinister thief bent on stealing a rare book that may be the key to unlocking infinite treasure, a wealthy academic traveling home to America with his rare book collection, and Patrick Waters, a twelve-year-old Irish boy who is certain that his job as a steward on the unsinkable ship will be the adventure of a lifetime. In Dangerous Waters, disguises, capers, and danger abound as the ship makes its way toward that fateful iceberg where Patrick will have to summon all his wits in order to survive.
- Editore:
- Macmillan Publishers
- Pubblicato:
- Mar 13, 2012
- ISBN:
- 9781429961844
- Formato:
- Libro
Informazioni sull'autore
Correlati a Dangerous Waters
Anteprima del libro
Dangerous Waters - Gregory Mone
books.
2
PRIDE OF BELFAST
In the kitchen of O’Neill’s, a small alehouse crammed between a funeral parlor and a shoemaker’s shop in the heart of Belfast, young Patrick Waters plunged the last of a night’s worth of glasses into the sink. He dunked it beneath the soapy surface, wiped it once with a rag, rinsed it quickly, and set it to dry on a white towel spread across the counter. Then he stopped, attempted to dry his water-wrinkled hands on his partially-soaked shirt, and listened.
Patrick, twelve years old and tall, was a very good listener. He could hear whispered words at a great distance, and although there was no scientific reason to suggest this was true, most people who knew him attributed this ability to his embarrassingly large ears. They were big enough for a man twice his size and leaned out, and slightly forward, at the tops, as if they were designed to catch sounds.
He let his hair grow long enough to cover his ears, yet they still poked out far enough to earn him a handful of undesirable nicknames. Boys at his old school, St. Mark’s, called him Jack the Donkey, and the men at O’Neill’s referred to him as Pegasus, the famous winged horse. Fly off with those gargantuan ears and fetch me another stout, Pegasus!
they’d shout laughing.
Now, with his work for the day finished, Patrick aimed those ears out toward the bar, on the other side of the swinging door leading in and out of the kitchen. The place was nearly empty. Only Mr. Joyce, the barman, and a few customers remained, and they were talking, as they often had in recent weeks, about Titanic, the great ocean liner that was being built right there in Belfast.
The voices were familiar: the bearlike growl of Mr. McNulty, who owned a small bookstore on Donegall Street; the thick country accent of Mr. Reilly, and, of course, Mr. Joyce’s deep, assured baritone.
She’s finished!
Mr. Reilly declared. Every last rivet is secure.
John McKeown tells me there’s still painting to be done,
Mr. Joyce put in. He always had some scrap of rare information at hand.
You would save that for last, though, wouldn’t you?
Mr. McNulty growled. "Like any lady, Titanic will wait until the last minute to apply her makeup."
As the men laughed, Patrick tucked in his soap-splattered shirt, grabbed his wool coat and cap, and hurried out of the kitchen. Mr. Joyce, bald and red-faced, with a pencil behind each ear, rested his thick forearms on the dark, square bar. The men sat leaning on the bar before him, each of them halfway through their stouts.
We are all washed up, Mr. Joyce,
Patrick said. Will I be going home now?
His boss nodded, granting him permission to leave.
Is it true your brother has a position on the ship?
Mr. Reilly asked.
I wouldn’t know,
Patrick answered. He’s been at sea. I haven’t heard from him for months.
I would guess he’ll be on that ship. I’d expect nothing less from the lad,
Mr. Joyce said. Your brother knows well what I’ve told you many times before, Patrick. You must associate yourself with greatness in this life.
Mr. Reilly looked around the pub, then placed his large hands on the bar. Is this greatness then?
he asked with a laugh.
A bar towel flew his way, but then Mr. Joyce smiled.
Mr. McNulty raised a glass and tilted it toward Patrick. Be sure to tell your mother that we’ve nearly sold the last of your father’s books. And in only six months! Ah, the collection that man had,
he said, turning to Mr. Joyce. The greatest adventures and stories. Stevenson, Kipling, plus the Romans. He was a learned man, John Waters, a true scholar of the street. Though, of course, you wouldn’t know it if you saw him after he’d downed his first few pints of—
Thank you, Mr. McNulty,
Patrick interrupted. "I’ll be sure to let her