THE LANDLADY
ROALD DAHL
Billy Weaver had travelled down from
London on the slow afternoon train, with a
change at Swindon on the way, and by the
time he got to Bath it was about nine
o’clock in the evening and the moon was
coming up out of a clear starry sky over
the houses opposite the station entrance.
But the air was deadly cold and the wind
was like a flat blade of ice on his cheeks.
“Excuse me,” he said, “but is there a
fairly cheap hotel not too far away from
here?”
“Try The Bell and Dragon,” the porter
answered, pointing down the road. “They
might take you in. It’s about a quarter of a
mile along on the other side.”
Billy thanked him and picked up his
suitcase and set out to walk the quarter-
mile to The Bell and Dragon. He had
20 never been to Bath before. He didn’t know
anyone who lived there. But Mr
Greenslade at the Head Office in London
had told him it was a splendid city. “Find
your own lodgings,” he had said, “and
then go along and report to the Branch
Manager as soon as you’ve got yourself
settled.”
Billy was seventeen years old. He was
wearing a new navy-blue overcoat, a new
brown trilby hat, and a new brown suit,
and he was feeling fine. He walked briskly
down the street. He was trying to do
everything briskly these days. Briskness,
he had decided, was the one common
characteristic of all successful
businessmen. The big shots up at Head
Office were absolutely fantastically brisk
all the time. They were amazing.
There were no shops on this wide street
40 that he was walking along, only a line of
tall houses on each side, all them
identical. They had porches and pillars
and four or five steps going up to their
front doors, and it was obvious that once
upon a time they had been very swanky
residences. But now, even in the
darkness, he could see that the paint was
peeling from the woodwork on their doors
and windows, and that the handsome
THE LANDLADY ROALD DAHL Billy Weaver had travelled down from London on the slow afternoon train, with a change at Swindon on the way, and by the time he got to Bath it was about nine o’clock in the evening and the moon was coming up out of a clear starry sky over the houses opposite the station entrance. But the air was deadly cold and the wind was like a flat blade of ice on his cheeks. “Excuse me,” he said, “but is there a fairly cheap hotel not too far away from here?” “Try The Bell and Dragon,” the porter answered, pointing down the road. “They might take you in. It’s about a quarter of a mile along on the other side.” Billy thanked him and picked up his suitcase and set out to walk the quarter-mile to The Bell and Dragon. He had 20 never been to Bath before. He didn’t know anyone who lived there. But Mr Greenslade at the Head Office in London had told him it was a splendid city. “Find your own lodgings,” he had said, “and then go along and report to the Branch Manager as soon as you’ve got yourself settled.” Billy was seventeen years old. He was wearing a new navy-blue overcoat, a new brown trilby hat, and a new brown suit, and he was feeling fine. He walked briskly down the street. He was trying to do everything briskly these days. Briskness, he had decided, was the one common characteristic of all successful businessmen. The big shots up at Head Office were absolutely fantastically brisk all the time. They were amazing. There were no shops on this wide street 40 that he was walking along, only a line of tall houses on each side, all them identical. They had porches and pillars and four or five steps going up to their front doors, and it was obvious that once upon a time they had been very swanky residences. But now, even in the darkness, he could see that the paint was peeling from the woodwork on their doors and windows, and that the handsome
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