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- Джек Лондон
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- Мартин Иден
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"
Guess
I
’
ll
go
down
an
’
get
a
glass
of
beer
,
"
Joe
said
,
in
the
queer
,
monotonous
tones
that
marked
his
week
-
end
collapse
.
Martin
seemed
suddenly
to
wake
up
.
He
opened
the
kit
bag
and
oiled
his
wheel
,
putting
graphite
on
the
chain
and
adjusting
the
bearings
.
Joe
was
halfway
down
to
the
saloon
when
Martin
passed
by
,
bending
low
over
the
handle
-
bars
,
his
legs
driving
the
ninety
-
six
gear
with
rhythmic
strength
,
his
face
set
for
seventy
miles
of
road
and
grade
and
dust
.
He
slept
in
Oakland
that
night
,
and
on
Sunday
covered
the
seventy
miles
back
.
And
on
Monday
morning
,
weary
,
he
began
the
new
week
’
s
work
,
but
he
had
kept
sober
.
A
fifth
week
passed
,
and
a
sixth
,
during
which
he
lived
and
toiled
as
a
machine
,
with
just
a
spark
of
something
more
in
him
,
just
a
glimmering
bit
of
soul
,
that
compelled
him
,
at
each
week
-
end
,
to
scorch
off
the
hundred
and
forty
miles
.
But
this
was
not
rest
.
It
was
super
-
machine
like
,
and
it
helped
to
crush
out
the
glimmering
bit
of
soul
that
was
all
that
was
left
him
from
former
life
.
At
the
end
of
the
seventh
week
,
without
intending
it
,
too
weak
to
resist
,
he
drifted
down
to
the
village
with
Joe
and
drowned
life
and
found
life
until
Monday
morning
.
Again
,
at
the
week
-
ends
,
he
ground
out
the
one
hundred
and
forty
miles
,
obliterating
the
numbness
of
too
great
exertion
by
the
numbness
of
still
greater
exertion
.
At
the
end
of
three
months
he
went
down
a
third
time
to
the
village
with
Joe
.
He
forgot
,
and
lived
again
,
and
,
living
,
he
saw
,
in
clear
illumination
,
the
beast
he
was
making
of
himself
—
not
by
the
drink
,
but
by
the
work
.
The
drink
was
an
effect
,
not
a
cause
.
It
followed
inevitably
upon
the
work
,
as
the
night
follows
upon
the
day
.
Not
by
becoming
a
toil
-
beast
could
he
win
to
the
heights
,
was
the
message
the
whiskey
whispered
to
him
,
and
he
nodded
approbation
.
The
whiskey
was
wise
.
It
told
secrets
on
itself
.
He
called
for
paper
and
pencil
,
and
for
drinks
all
around
,
and
while
they
drank
his
very
good
health
,
he
clung
to
the
bar
and
scribbled
.
"
A
telegram
,
Joe
,
"
he
said
.
"
Read
it
.
"
Joe
read
it
with
a
drunken
,
quizzical
leer
.
But
what
he
read
seemed
to
sober
him
.
He
looked
at
the
other
reproachfully
,
tears
oozing
into
his
eyes
and
down
his
cheeks
.
"
You
ain
’
t
goin
’
back
on
me
,
Mart
?
"
he
queried
hopelessly
.
Martin
nodded
,
and
called
one
of
the
loungers
to
him
to
take
the
message
to
the
telegraph
office
.
"
Hold
on
,
"
Joe
muttered
thickly
.
"
Lemme
think
.
"
