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- Джек Лондон
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- Мартин Иден
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"
I
say
,
"
he
began
.
"
Don
’
t
talk
to
me
,
"
Martin
snarled
.
"
I
’
m
sorry
,
Joe
,
"
he
said
at
noon
,
when
they
knocked
off
for
dinner
.
Tears
came
into
the
other
’
s
eyes
.
"
That
’
s
all
right
,
old
man
,
"
he
said
.
"
We
’
re
in
hell
,
an
’
we
can
’
t
help
ourselves
.
An
’
,
you
know
,
I
kind
of
like
you
a
whole
lot
.
That
’
s
what
made
it
—
hurt
.
I
cottoned
to
you
from
the
first
.
"
Martin
shook
his
hand
.
"
Let
’
s
quit
,
"
Joe
suggested
.
"
Let
’
s
chuck
it
,
an
’
go
hoboin
’
.
I
ain
’
t
never
tried
it
,
but
it
must
be
dead
easy
.
An
’
nothin
’
to
do
.
Just
think
of
it
,
nothin
’
to
do
.
I
was
sick
once
,
typhoid
,
in
the
hospital
,
an
’
it
was
beautiful
.
I
wish
I
’
d
get
sick
again
.
"
The
week
dragged
on
.
The
hotel
was
full
,
and
extra
"
fancy
starch
"
poured
in
upon
them
.
They
performed
prodigies
of
valor
.
They
fought
late
each
night
under
the
electric
lights
,
bolted
their
meals
,
and
even
got
in
a
half
hour
’
s
work
before
breakfast
.
Martin
no
longer
took
his
cold
baths
.
Every
moment
was
drive
,
drive
,
drive
,
and
Joe
was
the
masterful
shepherd
of
moments
,
herding
them
carefully
,
never
losing
one
,
counting
them
over
like
a
miser
counting
gold
,
working
on
in
a
frenzy
,
toil
-
mad
,
a
feverish
machine
,
aided
ably
by
that
other
machine
that
thought
of
itself
as
once
having
been
one
Martin
Eden
,
a
man
.
But
it
was
only
at
rare
moments
that
Martin
was
able
to
think
.
The
house
of
thought
was
closed
,
its
windows
boarded
up
,
and
he
was
its
shadowy
caretaker
.
He
was
a
shadow
.
Joe
was
right
.
They
were
both
shadows
,
and
this
was
the
unending
limbo
of
toil
.
Or
was
it
a
dream
?
Sometimes
,
in
the
steaming
,
sizzling
heat
,
as
he
swung
the
heavy
irons
back
and
forth
over
the
white
garments
,
it
came
to
him
that
it
was
a
dream
.
In
a
short
while
,
or
maybe
after
a
thousand
years
or
so
,
he
would
awake
,
in
his
little
room
with
the
ink
-
stained
table
,
and
take
up
his
writing
where
he
had
left
off
the
day
before
.
Or
maybe
that
was
a
dream
,
too
,
and
the
awakening
would
be
the
changing
of
the
watches
,
when
he
would
drop
down
out
of
his
bunk
in
the
lurching
forecastle
and
go
up
on
deck
,
under
the
tropic
stars
,
and
take
the
wheel
and
feel
the
cool
tradewind
blowing
through
his
flesh
.
Came
Saturday
and
its
hollow
victory
at
three
o
’
clock
.
