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- Джек Лондон
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- Мартин Иден
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- Стр. 112/241
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So
Martin
drank
,
in
his
easy
way
,
to
show
that
he
was
good
friends
with
the
house
,
and
then
went
supperless
to
bed
.
The
fruit
store
,
where
Martin
had
bought
his
vegetables
,
was
run
by
an
American
whose
business
principles
were
so
weak
that
he
let
Martin
run
a
bill
of
five
dollars
before
stopping
his
credit
.
The
baker
stopped
at
two
dollars
,
and
the
butcher
at
four
dollars
.
Martin
added
his
debts
and
found
that
he
was
possessed
of
a
total
credit
in
all
the
world
of
fourteen
dollars
and
eighty
-
five
cents
.
He
was
up
with
his
type
-
writer
rent
,
but
he
estimated
that
he
could
get
two
months
’
credit
on
that
,
which
would
be
eight
dollars
.
When
that
occurred
,
he
would
have
exhausted
all
possible
credit
.
The
last
purchase
from
the
fruit
store
had
been
a
sack
of
potatoes
,
and
for
a
week
he
had
potatoes
,
and
nothing
but
potatoes
,
three
times
a
day
.
An
occasional
dinner
at
Ruth
’
s
helped
to
keep
strength
in
his
body
,
though
he
found
it
tantalizing
enough
to
refuse
further
helping
when
his
appetite
was
raging
at
sight
of
so
much
food
spread
before
it
.
Now
and
again
,
though
afflicted
with
secret
shame
,
he
dropped
in
at
his
sister
’
s
at
meal
-
time
and
ate
as
much
as
he
dared
—
more
than
he
dared
at
the
Morse
table
.
Day
by
day
he
worked
on
,
and
day
by
day
the
postman
delivered
to
him
rejected
manuscripts
.
He
had
no
money
for
stamps
,
so
the
manuscripts
accumulated
in
a
heap
under
the
table
.
Came
a
day
when
for
forty
hours
he
had
not
tasted
food
.
He
could
not
hope
for
a
meal
at
Ruth
’
s
,
for
she
was
away
to
San
Rafael
on
a
two
weeks
’
visit
;
and
for
very
shame
’
s
sake
he
could
not
go
to
his
sister
’
s
.
To
cap
misfortune
,
the
postman
,
in
his
afternoon
round
,
brought
him
five
returned
manuscripts
.
Then
it
was
that
Martin
wore
his
overcoat
down
into
Oakland
,
and
came
back
without
it
,
but
with
five
dollars
tinkling
in
his
pocket
.
He
paid
a
dollar
each
on
account
to
the
four
tradesmen
,
and
in
his
kitchen
fried
steak
and
onions
,
made
coffee
,
and
stewed
a
large
pot
of
prunes
.
And
having
dined
,
he
sat
down
at
his
table
-
desk
and
completed
before
midnight
an
essay
which
he
entitled
"
The
Dignity
of
Usury
.
"
Having
typed
it
out
,
he
flung
it
under
the
table
,
for
there
had
been
nothing
left
from
the
five
dollars
with
which
to
buy
stamps
.
Later
on
he
pawned
his
watch
,
and
still
later
his
wheel
,
reducing
the
amount
available
for
food
by
putting
stamps
on
all
his
manuscripts
and
sending
them
out
.
He
was
disappointed
with
his
hack
-
work
.
Nobody
cared
to
buy
.
He
compared
it
with
what
he
found
in
the
newspapers
,
weeklies
,
and
cheap
magazines
,
and
decided
that
his
was
better
,
far
better
,
than
the
average
;
yet
it
would
not
sell
.
Then
he
discovered
that
most
of
the
newspapers
printed
a
great
deal
of
what
was
called
"
plate
"
stuff
,
and
he
got
the
address
of
the
association
that
furnished
it
.
His
own
work
that
he
sent
in
was
returned
,
along
with
a
stereotyped
slip
informing
him
that
the
staff
supplied
all
the
copy
that
was
needed
.
In
one
of
the
great
juvenile
periodicals
he
noted
whole
columns
of
incident
and
anecdote
.
Here
was
a
chance
.
His
paragraphs
were
returned
,
and
though
he
tried
repeatedly
he
never
succeeded
in
placing
one
.
Later
on
,
when
it
no
longer
mattered
,
he
learned
that
the
associate
editors
and
sub
-
editors
augmented
their
salaries
by
supplying
those
paragraphs
themselves
.
The
comic
weeklies
returned
his
jokes
and
humorous
verse
,
and
the
light
society
verse
he
wrote
for
the
large
magazines
found
no
abiding
-
place
.
Then
there
was
the
newspaper
storiette
.
He
knew
that
he
could
write
better
ones
than
were
published
.
Managing
to
obtain
the
addresses
of
two
newspaper
syndicates
,
he
deluged
them
with
storiettes
.
When
he
had
written
twenty
and
failed
to
place
one
of
them
,
he
ceased
.
And
yet
,
from
day
to
day
,
he
read
storiettes
in
the
dailies
and
weeklies
,
scores
and
scores
of
storiettes
,
not
one
of
which
would
compare
with
his
.
In
his
despondency
,
he
concluded
that
he
had
no
judgment
whatever
,
that
he
was
hypnotized
by
what
he
wrote
,
and
that
he
was
a
self
-
deluded
pretender
.
The
inhuman
editorial
machine
ran
smoothly
as
ever
.
He
folded
the
stamps
in
with
his
manuscript
,
dropped
it
into
the
letter
-
box
,
and
from
three
weeks
to
a
month
afterward
the
postman
came
up
the
steps
and
handed
him
the
manuscript
.
Surely
there
were
no
live
,
warm
editors
at
the
other
end
.
It
was
all
wheels
and
cogs
and
oil
-
cups
—
a
clever
mechanism
operated
by
automatons
.
He
reached
stages
of
despair
wherein
he
doubted
if
editors
existed
at
all
.
He
had
never
received
a
sign
of
the
existence
of
one
,
and
from
absence
of
judgment
in
rejecting
all
he
wrote
it
seemed
plausible
that
editors
were
myths
,
manufactured
and
maintained
by
office
boys
,
typesetters
,
and
pressmen
.
