Crome Yellow | Page 3

to Project
Gutenberg, or:
[1] Only give exact copies of it. Among other things, this requires that you do not remove,
alter or modify the etext or this "small print!" statement. You may however, if you wish,
distribute this etext in machine readable binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary
form, including any form resulting from conversion by word pro- cessing or hypertext
software, but only so long as *EITHER*:
[*] The etext, when displayed, is clearly readable, and does *not* contain characters
other than those intended by the author of the work, although tilde (~), asterisk (*) and
underline (_) characters may be used to convey punctuation intended by the author, and
additional characters may be used to indicate hypertext links; OR
[*] The etext may be readily converted by the reader at no expense into plain ASCII,
EBCDIC or equivalent form by the program that displays the etext (as is the case, for
instance, with most word processors); OR
[*] You provide, or agree to also provide on request at no additional cost, fee or expense,
a copy of the etext in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC or other equivalent
proprietary form).
[2] Honor the etext refund and replacement provisions of this "Small Print!" statement.
[3] Pay a trademark license fee to the Project of 20% of the net profits you derive
calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. If you
don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are payable to "Project Gutenberg
Association/Carnegie-Mellon University" within the 60 days following each date you
prepare (or were legally required to prepare) your annual (or equivalent periodic) tax
return.
WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO?
The Project gratefully accepts contributions in money, time, scanning machines, OCR
software, public domain etexts, royalty free copyright licenses, and every other sort of

contribution you can think of. Money should be paid to "Project Gutenberg Association /
Carnegie-Mellon University".
*END*THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END*

This etext was prepared by Sue Asscher

CROME YELLOW
By
ALDOUS HUXLEY

CHAPTER I.
Along this particular stretch of line no express had ever passed. All the trains--the few
that there were--stopped at all the stations. Denis knew the names of those stations by
heart. Bole, Tritton, Spavin Delawarr, Knipswich for Timpany, West Bowlby, and,
finally, Camlet-on-the-Water. Camlet was where he always got out, leaving the train to
creep indolently onward, goodness only knew whither, into the green heart of England.
They were snorting out of West Bowlby now. It was the next station, thank Heaven.
Denis took his chattels off the rack and piled them neatly in the corner opposite his own.
A futile proceeding. But one must have something to do. When he had finished, he sank
back into his seat and closed his eyes. It was extremely hot.
Oh, this journey! It was two hours cut clean out of his life; two hours in which he might
have done so much, so much--written the perfect poem, for example, or read the one
illuminating book. Instead of which--his gorge rose at the smell of the dusty cushions
against which he was leaning.
Two hours. One hundred and twenty minutes. Anything might be done in that time.
Anything. Nothing. Oh, he had had hundreds of hours, and what had he done with them?
Wasted them, spilt the precious minutes as though his reservoir were inexhaustible. Denis
groaned in the spirit, condemned himself utterly with all his works. What right had he to
sit in the sunshine, to occupy corner seats in third-class carriages, to be alive? None, none,
none.
Misery and a nameless nostalgic distress possessed him. He was twenty-three, and oh! so
agonizingly conscious of the fact.
The train came bumpingly to a halt. Here was Camlet at last. Denis jumped up, crammed
his hat over his eyes, deranged his pile of baggage, leaned out of the window and shouted

for a porter, seized a bag in either hand, and had to put them down again in order to open
the door. When at last he had safely bundled himself and his baggage on to the platform,
he ran up the train towards the van.
"A bicycle, a bicycle!" he said breathlessly to the guard. He felt himself a man of action.
The guard paid no attention, but continued methodically to hand out, one by one, the
packages labelled to Camlet. "A bicycle!" Denis repeated. "A green machine,
cross-framed, name of Stone. S-T-O-N-E."
"All in good time, sir," said the guard soothingly. He was a large, stately man with a
naval beard. One pictured him at home, drinking tea, surrounded by a numerous family. It
was in that tone that he must have spoken to his children when they were