Samee-ur/hp_example_data_new · Datasets at Hugging Face

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computer in his sports bag.
They drove. And they drove. Even Aunt Petunia didn't dare ask where they
were going. Every now and then Uncle Vernon would take a sharp turn and
drive in the opposite direction for a while. "Shake'em off... shake 'em
off," he would mutter whenever he did this.
They didn't stop to eat or drink all day. By nightfall Dudley was
howling. He'd never had such a bad day in his life. He was hungry, he'd
missed five television programs he'd wanted to see, and he'd never gone
so long without blowing up an alien on his computer.
Uncle Vernon stopped at last outside a gloomy-looking hotel on the
outskirts of a big city. Dudley and Harry shared a room with twin beds
and damp, musty sheets. Dudley snored but Harry stayed awake, sitting on
the windowsill, staring down at the lights of passing cars and
wondering....
They ate stale cornflakes and cold tinned tomatoes on toast for
breakfast the next day. They had just finished when the owner of the
hotel came over to their table.
"'Scuse me, but is one of you Mr. H. Potter? Only I got about an 'undred
of these at the front desk."
She held up a letter so they could read the green ink address:
Mr. H. Potter
Room 17
Railview Hotel
Cokeworth
Harry made a grab for the letter but Uncle Vernon knocked his hand out
of the way. The woman stared.
"I'll take them," said Uncle Vernon, standing up quickly and following
her from the dining room.
Wouldn't it be better just to go home, dear?" Aunt Petunia suggested
timidly, hours later, but Uncle Vernon didn't seem to hear her. Exactly
what he was looking for, none of them knew. He drove them into the
middle of a forest, got out, looked around, shook his head, got back in
the car, and off they went again. The same thing happened in the middle
of a plowed field, halfway across a suspension bridge, and at the top of
a multilevel parking garage.
"Daddy's gone mad, hasn't he?" Dudley asked Aunt Petunia dully late that
afternoon. Uncle Vernon had parked at the coast, locked them all inside
the car, and disappeared.
It started to rain. Great drops beat on the roof of the car. Dud ley
sniveled.
"It's Monday," he told his mother. "The Great Humberto's on tonight. I
want to stay somewhere with a television. "
Monday. This reminded Harry of something. If it was Monday -- and you
could usually count on Dudley to know the days the week, because of
television -- then tomorrow, Tuesday, was Harry's eleventh birthday. Of
course, his birthdays were never exactly fun -- last year, the Dursleys
had given him a coat hanger and a pair of Uncle Vernon's old socks.
Still, you weren't eleven every day.
Uncle Vernon was back and he was smiling. He was also carrying a long,
thin package and didn't answer Aunt Petunia when she asked what he'd
bought.
"Found the perfect place!" he said. "Come on! Everyone out!"
It was very cold outside the car. Uncle Vernon was pointing at what
looked like a large rock way out at sea. Perched on top of the rock was
the most miserable little shack you could imagine. One thing was
certain, there was no television in there.
"Storm forecast for tonight!" said Uncle Vernon gleefully, clapping his
hands together. "And this gentleman's kindly agreed to lend us his
boat!"
A toothless old man came ambling up to them, pointing, with a rather
wicked grin, at an old rowboat bobbing in the iron-gray water below
them.
"I've already got us some rations," said Uncle Vernon, "so all aboard!"
It was freezing in the boat. Icy sea spray and rain crept down their
necks and a chilly wind whipped their faces. After what seemed like
hours they reached the rock, where Uncle Vernon, slipping and sliding,
led the way to the broken-down house.
The inside was horrible; it smelled strongly of seaweed, the wind
whistled through the gaps in the wooden walls, and the fireplace was
damp and empty. There were only two rooms.
Uncle Vernon's rations turned out to be a bag of chips each and four
bananas. He tried to start a fire but the empty chip bags just smoked
and shriveled up.
"Could do with some of those letters now, eh?" he said cheerfully.
He was in a very good mood. Obviously he thought nobody stood a chance
of reaching them here in a storm to deliver mail. Harry privately
agreed, though the thought didn't cheer him up at all.
As night fell, the promised storm blew up around them. Spray from the
high waves splattered the walls of the hut and a fierce wind rattled the
filthy windows. Aunt Petunia found a few moldy blankets in the second
room and made up a bed for Dudley on the moth-eaten sofa. She and Uncle
Vernon went off to the lumpy bed next door, and Harry was left to find
the softest bit of floor he could and to curl up under the thinnest,
most ragged blanket.
The storm raged more and more ferociously as the night went on. Harry
couldn't sleep. He shivered and turned over, trying to get comfortable,
his stomach rumbling with hunger. Dudley's snores were drowned by the
low rolls of thunder that started near midnight. The lighted dial of
Dudley's watch, which was dangling over the edge of the sofa on his fat
wrist, told Harry he'd be eleven in ten minutes' time. He lay and
watched his birthday tick nearer, wondering if the Dursleys would
remember at all, wondering where the letter writer was now.
Five minutes to go. Harry heard something creak outside. He hoped the
roof wasn't going to fall in, although he might be warmer if it did.
Four minutes to go. Maybe the house in Privet Drive would be so full of
letters when they got back that he'd be able to steal one somehow.
Three minutes to go. Was that the sea, slapping hard on the rock like
that? And (two minutes to go) what was that funny crunching noise? Was
the rock crumbling into the sea?
One minute to go and he'd be eleven. Thirty seconds... twenty ... ten...

computer in his sports bag.

They drove. And they drove. Even Aunt Petunia didn't dare ask where they

were going. Every now and then Uncle Vernon would take a sharp turn and

drive in the opposite direction for a while. "Shake'em off... shake 'em

off," he would mutter whenever he did this.

They didn't stop to eat or drink all day. By nightfall Dudley was

howling. He'd never had such a bad day in his life. He was hungry, he'd

missed five television programs he'd wanted to see, and he'd never gone

so long without blowing up an alien on his computer.

Uncle Vernon stopped at last outside a gloomy-looking hotel on the

outskirts of a big city. Dudley and Harry shared a room with twin beds

and damp, musty sheets. Dudley snored but Harry stayed awake, sitting on

the windowsill, staring down at the lights of passing cars and

wondering....

They ate stale cornflakes and cold tinned tomatoes on toast for

breakfast the next day. They had just finished when the owner of the

hotel came over to their table.

"'Scuse me, but is one of you Mr. H. Potter? Only I got about an 'undred

of these at the front desk."

She held up a letter so they could read the green ink address:

Mr. H. Potter

Room 17

Railview Hotel

Cokeworth

Harry made a grab for the letter but Uncle Vernon knocked his hand out

of the way. The woman stared.

"I'll take them," said Uncle Vernon, standing up quickly and following

her from the dining room.

Wouldn't it be better just to go home, dear?" Aunt Petunia suggested

timidly, hours later, but Uncle Vernon didn't seem to hear her. Exactly

what he was looking for, none of them knew. He drove them into the

middle of a forest, got out, looked around, shook his head, got back in

the car, and off they went again. The same thing happened in the middle

of a plowed field, halfway across a suspension bridge, and at the top of

a multilevel parking garage.

"Daddy's gone mad, hasn't he?" Dudley asked Aunt Petunia dully late that

afternoon. Uncle Vernon had parked at the coast, locked them all inside

the car, and disappeared.

It started to rain. Great drops beat on the roof of the car. Dud ley

sniveled.

"It's Monday," he told his mother. "The Great Humberto's on tonight. I

want to stay somewhere with a television. "

Monday. This reminded Harry of something. If it was Monday -- and you

could usually count on Dudley to know the days the week, because of

television -- then tomorrow, Tuesday, was Harry's eleventh birthday. Of

course, his birthdays were never exactly fun -- last year, the Dursleys

had given him a coat hanger and a pair of Uncle Vernon's old socks.

Still, you weren't eleven every day.

Uncle Vernon was back and he was smiling. He was also carrying a long,

thin package and didn't answer Aunt Petunia when she asked what he'd

bought.

"Found the perfect place!" he said. "Come on! Everyone out!"

It was very cold outside the car. Uncle Vernon was pointing at what

looked like a large rock way out at sea. Perched on top of the rock was

the most miserable little shack you could imagine. One thing was

certain, there was no television in there.

"Storm forecast for tonight!" said Uncle Vernon gleefully, clapping his

hands together. "And this gentleman's kindly agreed to lend us his

boat!"

A toothless old man came ambling up to them, pointing, with a rather

wicked grin, at an old rowboat bobbing in the iron-gray water below

them.

"I've already got us some rations," said Uncle Vernon, "so all aboard!"

It was freezing in the boat. Icy sea spray and rain crept down their

necks and a chilly wind whipped their faces. After what seemed like

hours they reached the rock, where Uncle Vernon, slipping and sliding,

led the way to the broken-down house.

The inside was horrible; it smelled strongly of seaweed, the wind

whistled through the gaps in the wooden walls, and the fireplace was

damp and empty. There were only two rooms.

Uncle Vernon's rations turned out to be a bag of chips each and four

bananas. He tried to start a fire but the empty chip bags just smoked

and shriveled up.

"Could do with some of those letters now, eh?" he said cheerfully.

He was in a very good mood. Obviously he thought nobody stood a chance

of reaching them here in a storm to deliver mail. Harry privately

agreed, though the thought didn't cheer him up at all.

As night fell, the promised storm blew up around them. Spray from the

high waves splattered the walls of the hut and a fierce wind rattled the

filthy windows. Aunt Petunia found a few moldy blankets in the second

room and made up a bed for Dudley on the moth-eaten sofa. She and Uncle

Vernon went off to the lumpy bed next door, and Harry was left to find

the softest bit of floor he could and to curl up under the thinnest,

most ragged blanket.

The storm raged more and more ferociously as the night went on. Harry

couldn't sleep. He shivered and turned over, trying to get comfortable,

his stomach rumbling with hunger. Dudley's snores were drowned by the

low rolls of thunder that started near midnight. The lighted dial of

Dudley's watch, which was dangling over the edge of the sofa on his fat

wrist, told Harry he'd be eleven in ten minutes' time. He lay and

watched his birthday tick nearer, wondering if the Dursleys would

remember at all, wondering where the letter writer was now.

Five minutes to go. Harry heard something creak outside. He hoped the

roof wasn't going to fall in, although he might be warmer if it did.

Four minutes to go. Maybe the house in Privet Drive would be so full of

letters when they got back that he'd be able to steal one somehow.

Three minutes to go. Was that the sea, slapping hard on the rock like

that? And (two minutes to go) what was that funny crunching noise? Was

the rock crumbling into the sea?

One minute to go and he'd be eleven. Thirty seconds... twenty ... ten...