-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Джек Лондон
-
- Мартин Иден
-
- Стр. 67/241
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
"
The
first
battle
,
fought
and
finished
,
"
Martin
said
to
the
looking
-
glass
ten
days
later
.
"
But
there
will
be
a
second
battle
,
and
a
third
battle
,
and
battles
to
the
end
of
time
,
unless
—
"
He
had
not
finished
the
sentence
,
but
looked
about
the
mean
little
room
and
let
his
eyes
dwell
sadly
upon
a
heap
of
returned
manuscripts
,
still
in
their
long
envelopes
,
which
lay
in
a
corner
on
the
floor
.
He
had
no
stamps
with
which
to
continue
them
on
their
travels
,
and
for
a
week
they
had
been
piling
up
.
More
of
them
would
come
in
on
the
morrow
,
and
on
the
next
day
,
and
the
next
,
till
they
were
all
in
.
And
he
would
be
unable
to
start
them
out
again
.
He
was
a
month
’
s
rent
behind
on
the
typewriter
,
which
he
could
not
pay
,
having
barely
enough
for
the
week
’
s
board
which
was
due
and
for
the
employment
office
fees
.
He
sat
down
and
regarded
the
table
thoughtfully
.
There
were
ink
stains
upon
it
,
and
he
suddenly
discovered
that
he
was
fond
of
it
.
"
Dear
old
table
,
"
he
said
,
"
I
’
ve
spent
some
happy
hours
with
you
,
and
you
’
ve
been
a
pretty
good
friend
when
all
is
said
and
done
.
You
never
turned
me
down
,
never
passed
me
out
a
reward
-
of
-
unmerit
rejection
slip
,
never
complained
about
working
overtime
.
"
He
dropped
his
arms
upon
the
table
and
buried
his
face
in
them
.
His
throat
was
aching
,
and
he
wanted
to
cry
.
It
reminded
him
of
his
first
fight
,
when
he
was
six
years
old
,
when
he
punched
away
with
the
tears
running
down
his
cheeks
while
the
other
boy
,
two
years
his
elder
,
had
beaten
and
pounded
him
into
exhaustion
.
He
saw
the
ring
of
boys
,
howling
like
barbarians
as
he
went
down
at
last
,
writhing
in
the
throes
of
nausea
,
the
blood
streaming
from
his
nose
and
the
tears
from
his
bruised
eyes
.
"
Poor
little
shaver
,
"
he
murmured
.
"
And
you
’
re
just
as
badly
licked
now
.
You
’
re
beaten
to
a
pulp
.
You
’
re
down
and
out
.
"
But
the
vision
of
that
first
fight
still
lingered
under
his
eyelids
,
and
as
he
watched
he
saw
it
dissolve
and
reshape
into
the
series
of
fights
which
had
followed
.
Six
months
later
Cheese
-
Face
(
that
was
the
boy
)
had
whipped
him
again
.
But
he
had
blacked
Cheese
-
Face
’
s
eye
that
time
.
That
was
going
some
.
He
saw
them
all
,
fight
after
fight
,
himself
always
whipped
and
Cheese
-
Face
exulting
over
him
.
But
he
had
never
run
away
.
He
felt
strengthened
by
the
memory
of
that
.
He
had
always
stayed
and
taken
his
medicine
.
Cheese
-
Face
had
been
a
little
fiend
at
fighting
,
and
had
never
once
shown
mercy
to
him
.
But
he
had
stayed
!
He
had
stayed
with
it
!
Next
,
he
saw
a
narrow
alley
,
between
ramshackle
frame
buildings
.
The
end
of
the
alley
was
blocked
by
a
one
-
story
brick
building
,
out
of
which
issued
the
rhythmic
thunder
of
the
presses
,
running
off
the
first
edition
of
the
Enquirer
.
He
was
eleven
,
and
Cheese
-
Face
was
thirteen
,
and
they
both
carried
the
Enquirer
.
That
was
why
they
were
there
,
waiting
for
their
papers
.
And
,
of
course
,
Cheese
-
Face
had
picked
on
him
again
,
and
there
was
another
fight
that
was
indeterminate
,
because
at
quarter
to
four
the
door
of
the
press
-
room
was
thrown
open
and
the
gang
of
boys
crowded
in
to
fold
their
papers
.
