"Children's Books - Dopey Dennis" - читать интересную книгу автора (Children's Books)fortune.
"Who gave you such a good price?" his mother asked him. The lad replied: "A very dignified-looking gentleman. He didn't speak, and do you know where he kept his money? In his head!" At this, Dennis's mother exclaimed: "Dennis, listen! You killed the broody hen, broke the eggs, flooded the cellar with wine, wasted five bags of flour, smashed plates, bottles, vases and glasses; you nearly ate the cream, if you think you're going to pull my leg as well you're badly mistaken! Get out of here!" And grabbing the broom, she chased him out of the house. "I don't want to see you again till tonight! Off you go into the vegetable plot." But, as the boy was sitting on the doorstep and did not budge, his exasperated mother picked up the first thing that came within her grasp and hurled it at Dennis's head. It was a big basket of dried figs and sultanas. Dennis shouted then: "Mum! Mum! Quick! Bring a bag! It's raining dry figs and sultanas!" His mother slumped into a chair and said sorrowfully: "What can I do with a boy like him?" Now, since Dennis went about telling folk he had a lot of gold coins, the "A gentleman gave me them in payment for a roll of cloth." "What gentleman?" said the magistrates severely. "The gentleman that is always standing at the corner of Plane Tree Street and Jasmine Road," replied the boy. "But that's a statue!" gasped the magistrates. Dennis said: "He didn't say what his name was, but maybe it is Mr. Statue. He kept his money in his head." The magistrates gaped at each other in utter astonishment. Then the chief magistrate asked: "Tell us, Dennis, when did you do this piece of business?" "It was the day it rained dry figs and sultanas!" the boy replied. Again the magistrates exchanged looks, and now certain that Dennis really was dopey, they said: "You can go home, lad, you're free!" And so Dennis went home and lived there happily with his mother. A bit dopey, yes, but he never did anybody any harm, and that's all that counts. . |
|
|