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- Джек Лондон
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- Мартин Иден
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- Стр. 236/241
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"
All
right
,
"
Joe
admitted
reluctantly
.
"
I
thought
you
was
turnin
’
me
down
,
but
I
guess
I
was
mistaken
.
But
you
can
’
t
lick
me
,
Mart
,
in
a
stand
-
up
fight
.
I
’
ve
got
the
reach
on
you
.
"
"
We
’
ll
put
on
the
gloves
sometime
and
see
,
"
Martin
said
with
a
smile
.
"
Sure
;
as
soon
as
I
get
that
laundry
going
.
"
Joe
extended
his
arm
.
"
You
see
that
reach
?
It
’
ll
make
you
go
a
few
.
"
Martin
heaved
a
sigh
of
relief
when
the
door
closed
behind
the
laundryman
.
He
was
becoming
anti
-
social
.
Daily
he
found
it
a
severer
strain
to
be
decent
with
people
.
Their
presence
perturbed
him
,
and
the
effort
of
conversation
irritated
him
.
They
made
him
restless
,
and
no
sooner
was
he
in
contact
with
them
than
he
was
casting
about
for
excuses
to
get
rid
of
them
.
He
did
not
proceed
to
attack
his
mail
,
and
for
a
half
hour
he
lolled
in
his
chair
,
doing
nothing
,
while
no
more
than
vague
,
half
-
formed
thoughts
occasionally
filtered
through
his
intelligence
,
or
rather
,
at
wide
intervals
,
themselves
constituted
the
flickering
of
his
intelligence
.
He
roused
himself
and
began
glancing
through
his
mail
.
There
were
a
dozen
requests
for
autographs
—
he
knew
them
at
sight
;
there
were
professional
begging
letters
;
and
there
were
letters
from
cranks
,
ranging
from
the
man
with
a
working
model
of
perpetual
motion
,
and
the
man
who
demonstrated
that
the
surface
of
the
earth
was
the
inside
of
a
hollow
sphere
,
to
the
man
seeking
financial
aid
to
purchase
the
Peninsula
of
Lower
California
for
the
purpose
of
communist
colonization
.
There
were
letters
from
women
seeking
to
know
him
,
and
over
one
such
he
smiled
,
for
enclosed
was
her
receipt
for
pew
-
rent
,
sent
as
evidence
of
her
good
faith
and
as
proof
of
her
respectability
.
Editors
and
publishers
contributed
to
the
daily
heap
of
letters
,
the
former
on
their
knees
for
his
manuscripts
,
the
latter
on
their
knees
for
his
books
—
his
poor
disdained
manuscripts
that
had
kept
all
he
possessed
in
pawn
for
so
many
dreary
months
in
order
to
fund
them
in
postage
.
There
were
unexpected
checks
for
English
serial
rights
and
for
advance
payments
on
foreign
translations
.
His
English
agent
announced
the
sale
of
German
translation
rights
in
three
of
his
books
,
and
informed
him
that
Swedish
editions
,
from
which
he
could
expect
nothing
because
Sweden
was
not
a
party
to
the
Berne
Convention
,
were
already
on
the
market
.
Then
there
was
a
nominal
request
for
his
permission
for
a
Russian
translation
,
that
country
being
likewise
outside
the
Berne
Convention
.
He
turned
to
the
huge
bundle
of
clippings
which
had
come
in
from
his
press
bureau
,
and
read
about
himself
and
his
vogue
,
which
had
become
a
furore
.
All
his
creative
output
had
been
flung
to
the
public
in
one
magnificent
sweep
.
That
seemed
to
account
for
it
.
He
had
taken
the
public
off
its
feet
,
the
way
Kipling
had
,
that
time
when
he
lay
near
to
death
and
all
the
mob
,
animated
by
a
mob
-
mind
thought
,
began
suddenly
to
read
him
.
Martin
remembered
how
that
same
world
-
mob
,
having
read
him
and
acclaimed
him
and
not
understood
him
in
the
least
,
had
,
abruptly
,
a
few
months
later
,
flung
itself
upon
him
and
torn
him
to
pieces
.
Martin
grinned
at
the
thought
.
Who
was
he
that
he
should
not
be
similarly
treated
in
a
few
more
months
?
Well
,
he
would
fool
the
mob
.
He
would
be
away
,
in
the
South
Seas
,
building
his
grass
house
,
trading
for
pearls
and
copra
,
jumping
reefs
in
frail
outriggers
,
catching
sharks
and
bonitas
,
hunting
wild
goats
among
the
cliffs
of
the
valley
that
lay
next
to
the
valley
of
Taiohae
.
In
the
moment
of
that
thought
the
desperateness
of
his
situation
dawned
upon
him
.
He
saw
,
cleared
eyed
,
that
he
was
in
the
Valley
of
the
Shadow
.
All
the
life
that
was
in
him
was
fading
,
fainting
,
making
toward
death
.
He
realized
how
much
he
slept
,
and
how
much
he
desired
to
sleep
.
Of
old
,
he
had
hated
sleep
.
It
had
robbed
him
of
precious
moments
of
living
.
Four
hours
of
sleep
in
the
twenty
-
four
had
meant
being
robbed
of
four
hours
of
life
.
How
he
had
grudged
sleep
!
Now
it
was
life
he
grudged
.
Life
was
not
good
;
its
taste
in
his
mouth
was
without
tang
,
and
bitter
.
This
was
his
peril
.
Life
that
did
not
yearn
toward
life
was
in
fair
way
toward
ceasing
.
