<!doctype html>
  <meta charset="utf-8">
  <title>Various Styles</title>
  <link rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="cssex.css">
    p { text-indent: 25pt; }
    p.loud { font-weight: bold; color: DarkRed; }
    body { background-color: LightBlue; }
  <h1>King Solomon's Mines</h1>
        It is a curious thing that at my age &mdash; fifty-five last
        birthday &mdash; I should find myself taking up a pen to try to
        write a history.  I wonder what sort of a history it will be
        when I have finished it, if ever I come to the end of the
        trip!  I have done a good many things in my life, which seems
        a long one to me, owing to my having begun work so young,
        perhaps.  At an age when other boys are at school I was
        earning my living as a trader in the old Colony.  I have been
        trading, hunting, fighting, or mining ever since.  And yet it
        is only eight months ago that I made my pile.  It is a big
        pile now that I have got it &mdash; I don't yet know how
        big &mdash; but I do not think I would go through the last
        fifteen or sixteen months again for it; no, not if I knew that
        I should come out safe at the end, pile and all.  But then I
        am a timid man, and dislike violence; moreover, I am almost
        sick of adventure.  I wonder why I am going to write this
        book: it is not in my line.  I am not a literary man, though
        very devoted to the Old Testament and also to the "Ingoldsby
        Legends."  Let me try to set down my reasons, just to see if I
        have any.
        First reason: Because Sir Henry Curtis and Captain John Good
        asked me.
  <P style="text-indent: 0pt">
        Second reason: Because I am laid up here at Durban with the
        pain in my left leg.  Ever since that confounded lion got hold
        of me I have been liable to this trouble, and being rather bad
        just now, it makes me limp more than ever.  There must be some
        poison in a lion's teeth, otherwise how is it that when your
        wounds are healed they break out again, generally, mark you,
        at the same time of year that you got your mauling?  It is a
        hard thing when one has shot sixty-five lions or more, as I
        have in the course of my life, that the sixty-sixth should
        chew your leg like a quid of tobacco.  It breaks the routine
        of the thing, and putting other considerations aside, I am an
        orderly man and don't like that.  This is by the way.
        Third reason: Because I want my boy Harry, who is over there
        at the hospital in London studying to become a doctor, to have
        something to amuse him and keep him out of mischief for a week
        or so.  Hospital work must sometimes pall and grow rather
        dull, for even of cutting up dead bodies there may come
        satiety, and as this history will not be dull, whatever else
        it may be, it will put a little life into things for a day or
        two while Harry is reading of our adventures.
  <P class="loud">
        Fourth reason and last: Because I am going to tell the
        strangest story that I remember.  It may seem a queer thing to
        say, especially considering that there is no woman in
        it &mdash; except Foulata.  Stop, though! there is Gagaoola, if
        she was a woman, and not a fiend.  But she was a hundred at
        least, and therefore not marriageable, so I don't count her.
        At any rate, I can safely say that there is not a
        <span class="emph">petticoat</span> in th e whole history.
        Well, I had better come to the yoke.  It is a stiff place, and
        I feel as though I were bogged up to the axle.  But,
        &ldquo;<span class="foreign">sutjes, sutjes</span>,&rdquo; as
        the Boers say &mdash; I am sure I don't know how they spell it
        &mdash; softly does it.  A strong team will come through at
        last, that is, if they are not too poor.  You can never do
        anything with poor oxen.  Now to make a start.