9 КЛАСС! СРОЧНО!!!
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Ever since we left the inn, my stomach had been growing distressed, and the stench that hung in the stagnant air of that street did nothing to improve it. I laid the blame on the fried fish and oysters I had eaten, but it might have been due to nervousness. Suddenly I was unsure that I was up to the task of copying a whole play. And if I failed, Falconer would not be pleased. I would have pleaded illness, but I knew that Falconer would brook no excuse short of my writing hand being lopped off—and even then he would probably insist that I transcribe left-handed.
At the end of the street, a set of narrow stone steps led to the water’s edge. Falconer took them two at a time. I followed more cautiously and caught up just as he was handing several pennies to a waterman with a small wherry-boat.
“Get in,” Falconer said.
“In the boat?” I had never imagined the theatre would lie across the river.
“No, in the water,” he said acidly and, I hoped, sarcastically.
It was no use protesting that I had never set foot in a boat in my life, and did not care to now, or that if the craft were to capsize I would be lost, for I had never learned to swim. There was nothing to do but to swallow my fear and step into the insubstantial bottom of the boat, which was all that lay between me and the Land of Rumbelow, that is to say a watery grave.
I took my place in the stern and sat gripping the gun-4 3
wales with white-knuckled hands while Falconer climbed in, rocking the boat sickeningly, and the wherryman cast off.
Without the solid earth beneath my feet, my stomach grew even queasier. Before we were halfway across, I felt my dinner coming up. I tried to hold it back and, failing, thrust my head over the side of the boat and threw my fish back into the Thames, whence it had come. Unfortunately, I leaned out a bit too far. The boat listed suddenly, and I toppled over the side.