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- Джек Лондон
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- Стр. 71/210
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And
what
can
even
the
Warden
of
a
great
prison
do
in
reprisal
on
a
prisoner
upon
whom
the
ultimate
reprisal
has
already
been
wreaked
?
It
may
be
that
Warden
Atherton
thought
of
some
possible
threat
,
for
he
began
to
speak
But
my
voice
had
strengthened
with
the
exercise
,
and
I
began
to
sing
,
"
Sing
cucu
,
sing
cucu
,
sing
cucu
.
"
And
sing
I
did
until
my
door
clanged
and
the
bolts
and
locks
squeaked
and
grated
fast
.
Now
that
I
had
learned
the
trick
the
way
was
easy
.
And
I
knew
the
way
was
bound
to
become
easier
the
more
I
travelled
it
.
Once
establish
a
line
of
least
resistance
,
every
succeeding
journey
along
it
will
find
still
less
resistance
.
And
so
,
as
you
shall
see
,
my
journeys
from
San
Quentin
life
into
other
lives
were
achieved
almost
automatically
as
time
went
by
.
After
Warden
Atherton
and
his
crew
had
left
me
it
was
a
matter
of
minutes
to
will
the
resuscitated
portion
of
my
body
back
into
the
little
death
.
Death
in
life
it
was
,
but
it
was
only
the
little
death
,
similar
to
the
temporary
death
produced
by
an
anæsthetic
.
And
so
,
from
all
that
was
sordid
and
vile
,
from
brutal
solitary
and
jacket
hell
,
from
acquainted
flies
and
sweats
of
darkness
and
the
knuckle-talk
of
the
living
dead
,
I
was
away
at
a
bound
into
time
and
space
.
Came
the
duration
of
darkness
,
and
the
slow-growing
awareness
of
other
things
and
of
another
self
.
First
of
all
,
in
this
awareness
,
was
dust
.
It
was
in
my
nostrils
,
dry
and
acrid
.
It
was
on
my
lips
.
It
coated
my
face
,
my
hands
,
and
especially
was
it
noticeable
on
the
finger-tips
when
touched
by
the
ball
of
my
thumb
.
Next
I
was
aware
of
ceaseless
movement
.
All
that
was
about
me
lurched
and
oscillated
.
There
was
jolt
and
jar
,
and
I
heard
what
I
knew
as
a
matter
of
course
to
be
the
grind
of
wheels
on
axles
and
the
grate
and
clash
of
iron
tyres
against
rock
and
sand
.
And
there
came
to
me
the
jaded
voices
of
men
,
in
curse
and
snarl
of
slow-plodding
,
jaded
animals
.
I
opened
my
eyes
,
that
were
inflamed
with
dust
,
and
immediately
fresh
dust
bit
into
them
.
On
the
coarse
blankets
on
which
I
lay
the
dust
was
half
an
inch
thick
.
Above
me
,
through
sifting
dust
,
I
saw
an
arched
roof
of
lurching
,
swaying
canvas
,
and
myriads
of
dust
motes
descended
heavily
in
the
shafts
of
sunshine
that
entered
through
holes
in
the
canvas
.
I
was
a
child
,
a
boy
of
eight
or
nine
,
and
I
was
weary
,
as
was
the
woman
,
dusty-visaged
and
haggard
,
who
sat
up
beside
me
and
soothed
a
crying
babe
in
her
arms
.
She
was
my
mother
;
that
I
knew
as
a
matter
of
course
,
just
as
I
knew
,
when
I
glanced
along
the
canvas
tunnel
of
the
wagon-top
,
that
the
shoulders
of
the
man
on
the
driver
's
seat
were
the
shoulders
of
my
father
.
