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- Джек Лондон
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- Мартин Иден
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- Стр. 73/241
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He
looked
more
closely
at
himself
and
laughed
.
"
A
bit
of
hysteria
and
melodrama
,
eh
?
"
he
queried
.
"
Well
,
never
mind
.
You
licked
Cheese
-
Face
,
and
you
’
ll
lick
the
editors
if
it
takes
twice
eleven
years
to
do
it
in
.
You
can
’
t
stop
here
.
You
’
ve
got
to
go
on
.
It
’
s
to
a
finish
,
you
know
.
"
The
alarm
-
clock
went
off
,
jerking
Martin
out
of
sleep
with
a
suddenness
that
would
have
given
headache
to
one
with
less
splendid
constitution
.
Though
he
slept
soundly
,
he
awoke
instantly
,
like
a
cat
,
and
he
awoke
eagerly
,
glad
that
the
five
hours
of
unconsciousness
were
gone
.
He
hated
the
oblivion
of
sleep
.
There
was
too
much
to
do
,
too
much
of
life
to
live
.
He
grudged
every
moment
of
life
sleep
robbed
him
of
,
and
before
the
clock
had
ceased
its
clattering
he
was
head
and
ears
in
the
washbasin
and
thrilling
to
the
cold
bite
of
the
water
.
But
he
did
not
follow
his
regular
programme
.
There
was
no
unfinished
story
waiting
his
hand
,
no
new
story
demanding
articulation
.
He
had
studied
late
,
and
it
was
nearly
time
for
breakfast
.
He
tried
to
read
a
chapter
in
Fiske
,
but
his
brain
was
restless
and
he
closed
the
book
.
To
-
day
witnessed
the
beginning
of
the
new
battle
,
wherein
for
some
time
there
would
be
no
writing
.
He
was
aware
of
a
sadness
akin
to
that
with
which
one
leaves
home
and
family
.
He
looked
at
the
manuscripts
in
the
corner
.
That
was
it
.
He
was
going
away
from
them
,
his
pitiful
,
dishonored
children
that
were
welcome
nowhere
.
He
went
over
and
began
to
rummage
among
them
,
reading
snatches
here
and
there
,
his
favorite
portions
.
"
The
Pot
"
he
honored
with
reading
aloud
,
as
he
did
"
Adventure
.
"
"
Joy
,
"
his
latest
-
born
,
completed
the
day
before
and
tossed
into
the
corner
for
lack
of
stamps
,
won
his
keenest
approbation
.
"
I
can
’
t
understand
,
"
he
murmured
.
"
Or
maybe
it
’
s
the
editors
who
can
’
t
understand
.
There
’
s
nothing
wrong
with
that
.
They
publish
worse
every
month
.
Everything
they
publish
is
worse
—
nearly
everything
,
anyway
.
"
After
breakfast
he
put
the
type
-
writer
in
its
case
and
carried
it
down
into
Oakland
.
"
I
owe
a
month
on
it
,
"
he
told
the
clerk
in
the
store
.
"
But
you
tell
the
manager
I
’
m
going
to
work
and
that
I
’
ll
be
in
in
a
month
or
so
and
straighten
up
.
"
He
crossed
on
the
ferry
to
San
Francisco
and
made
his
way
to
an
employment
office
.
"
Any
kind
of
work
,
no
trade
,
"
he
told
the
agent
;
and
was
interrupted
by
a
new
-
comer
,
dressed
rather
foppishly
,
as
some
workingmen
dress
who
have
instincts
for
finer
things
.
The
agent
shook
his
head
despondently
.
"
Nothin
’
doin
’
eh
?
"
said
the
other
.
"
Well
,
I
got
to
get
somebody
to
-
day
.
"
He
turned
and
stared
at
Martin
,
and
Martin
,
staring
back
,
noted
the
puffed
and
discolored
face
,
handsome
and
weak
,
and
knew
that
he
had
been
making
a
night
of
it
.
