Cool Hand Luke: A Novel

Cool Hand Luke: A Novel

Donn Pearce

Language: English

Pages: 304

ISBN: 1560252286

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


Out of his experiences working on a chain gang, Donn Pearce created Cool Hand Luke, war hero turned "pretty evil feller," whose refusal to "git his mind right" becomes part of his fellow convicts' mythology of survival.

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wind and tumbled loosely along the shoulder of the road, rustling and crinkling, as it followed the direction of the departing car. And it was my luck to be the one to come across the front page, cursing my delivery boy, bending over to grab it up along with my other souvenirs of the tourist season. But then my eye caught the headline: War Hero Becomes Parking Meter Bandit I hesitated. This was a new type of crime to me and I was immediately intrigued. Quickly I got hold of the other sheets,

sidewalk. There was a long wait. Then the driver returned with a fat man wearing a Panama hat, a short sleeved sport shirt and pastel blue slacks. The fat man made continuous spitting movements with his lips as though trying to spit out an invisible grain of tobacco. In the background stood a man with deeply tanned skin and vacant eyes, on the alert and tense. In his hand dangled a pump action shotgun. The driver looked at the guard who nodded his head. Unlocking the door, the driver stood

of spraying sand and splashing asphalt, the air crisscrossed with hurtling, twisting projectiles. And the whoops were yelled back and forth in defiance and challenge, those old, old phrases, those bravuras of the Chain Gang. Go hard, bastard! Go hard! When it gets rough, get rough with it! Yahoo! Let the Good Time roll! If you hadn’t stole, you wouldn’t hafta roll! Mud! Mud! Gimme some gawd damn mud! The Free Men very nearly had to trot to keep up with our pace. They advanced through the

convince the dogs, who insisted on following a direct line of scent and the sound of Big Blue’s voice up ahead. The guards would wrestle with the dogs, kicking and beating them, swearing and tripping over themselves in the dark. Finally striking out on the new trail they would quickly lose it again at the edge of a pond. Again they would have to go around in ever-widening circles until they found the place where the scent left the water. As a boy Luke had done enough hunting with coon dogs and

like a huge badge. Farther on we passed a parked green truck that belonged to the forest rangers. Then we cut away the weeds that grew around a concrete anchor for one of the wire stays that supported the watchtower. Again I counted the flights of steps that zigzagged drunkenly up across the sky and towards the eyes hidden there in the clouds. Fifteen. Then we worked our way past a rusty barbed wire fence, the lightwood posts rotted away at the bottom and leaning at exhausted angles, held up by

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