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- Джером Дэвид Сэлинджер
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- Девять рассказов
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- Стр. 71/159
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"
I
don
’
t
know
.
Twenty
-
four
.
"
The
elevator
doors
opened
.
"
I
’
ll
call
you
laterl
"
Ginnie
said
Outside
the
building
,
she
started
to
walk
west
to
Lexington
to
catch
the
bus
.
Between
Third
and
Lexington
,
she
reached
into
her
coat
pocket
for
her
purse
and
found
the
sandwich
half
.
She
took
it
out
and
started
to
bring
her
arm
down
,
to
drop
the
sandwich
into
the
street
,
but
instead
she
put
it
back
into
her
pocket
.
A
few
years
before
,
it
had
taken
her
three
days
to
dispose
of
the
Easter
chick
she
had
found
dead
on
the
sawdust
in
the
bottom
of
her
wastebasket
.
In
1928
,
when
I
was
nine
,
I
belonged
,
with
maximum
esprit
de
corps
,
to
an
organization
known
as
the
Comanche
Club
.
Every
schoolday
afternoon
at
three
o
’
clock
,
twenty
-
five
of
us
Comanches
were
picked
up
by
our
Chief
outside
the
boys
’
exit
of
P
.
S
.
165
,
on
109th
Street
near
Amsterdam
Avenue
.
We
then
pushed
and
punched
our
way
into
the
Chief
’
s
reconverted
commercial
bus
,
and
he
drove
us
(
according
to
his
financial
arrangement
with
our
parents
)
over
to
Central
Park
.
The
rest
of
the
afternoon
,
weather
permitting
,
we
played
football
or
soccer
or
baseball
,
depending
(
very
loosely
)
on
the
season
.
Rainy
afternoons
,
the
Chief
invariably
took
us
either
to
the
Museum
of
Natural
History
or
to
the
Metropolitan
Museum
of
Art
.
Saturdays
and
most
national
holidays
,
the
Chief
picked
us
up
early
in
the
morning
at
our
various
apartment
houses
and
,
in
his
condemned
-
looking
bus
,
drove
us
out
of
Manhattan
into
the
comparatively
wide
open
spaces
of
Van
Cortlandt
Park
or
the
Palisades
.
If
we
had
straight
athletics
on
our
minds
,
we
went
to
Van
Cortlandt
,
where
the
playing
fields
were
regulation
size
and
where
the
opposing
team
didn
’
t
include
a
baby
carriage
or
an
irate
old
lady
with
a
cane
.
If
our
Comanche
hearts
were
set
on
camping
,
we
went
over
to
the
Palisades
and
roughed
it
.
(
I
remember
getting
lost
one
Saturday
somewhere
on
that
tricky
stretch
of
terrain
between
the
Linit
sign
and
the
site
of
the
western
end
of
the
George
Washington
Bridge
.
I
kept
my
head
,
though
.
I
just
sat
down
in
the
majestic
shadow
of
a
giant
billboard
and
,
however
tearfully
,
opened
my
lunchbox
for
business
,
semi
-
confident
that
the
Chief
would
find
me
.
The
Chief
always
found
us
.
)
In
his
hours
of
liberation
from
the
Comanches
,
the
Chief
was
John
Gedsudski
,
of
Staten
Island
.
He
was
an
extremely
shy
,
gentle
young
man
of
twenty
-
two
or
-
three
,
a
law
student
at
N
.
Y
.
U
.
,
and
altogether
a
very
memorable
person
.
I
won
’
t
attempt
to
assemble
his
many
achievements
and
virtues
here
.
Just
in
passing
,
he
was
an
Eagle
Scout
,
an
almost
-
All
-
America
tackle
of
1926
,
and
it
was
known
that
he
had
been
most
cordially
invited
to
try
out
for
the
New
York
Giants
’
baseball
team
.
He
was
an
impartial
and
unexcitable
umpire
at
all
our
bedlam
sporting
events
,
a
master
fire
builder
and
extinguisher
,
and
an
expert
,
uncontemptuous
first
-
aid
man
.
Every
one
of
us
,
from
the
smallest
hoodlum
to
the
biggest
,
loved
and
respected
him
.
The
Chief
’
s
physical
appearance
in
1928
is
still
clear
in
my
mind
.
If
wishes
were
inches
,
all
of
us
Comanches
would
have
had
him
a
giant
in
no
time
.
The
way
things
go
,
though
,
he
was
a
stocky
five
three
or
four
—
no
more
than
that
.
His
hair
was
blue
-
black
,
his
hair
-
line
extremely
low
,
his
nose
was
large
and
fleshy
,
and
his
torso
was
just
about
as
long
as
his
legs
were
.
In
his
leather
windbreaker
,
his
shoulders
were
powerful
,
but
narrow
and
sloping
.
At
the
time
,
however
,
it
seemed
to
me
that
in
the
Chief
all
the
most
photogenic
features
of
Buck
Jones
,
Ken
Maynard
,
and
Tom
Mix
had
been
smoothly
amalgamated
.
Every
afternoon
,
when
it
got
dark
enough
for
a
losing
team
to
have
an
excuse
for
missing
a
number
of
infield
popups
or
end
-
zone
passes
,
we
Comanches
relied
heavily
and
selfishly
on
the
Chief
’
s
talent
for
storytelling
.
By
that
hour
,
we
were
usually
an
overheated
,
irritable
bunch
,
and
we
fought
each
other
—
either
with
our
fists
or
our
shrill
voices
—
for
the
seats
in
the
bus
nearest
the
Chief
.
(
The
bus
had
two
parallel
rows
of
straw
seats
.
The
left
row
had
three
extra
seats
—
the
best
in
the
bus
—
that
extended
as
far
forward
as
the
driver
’
s
profile
.
)
The
Chief
climbed
into
the
bus
only
after
we
had
settled
down
.
Then
he
straddled
his
driver
’
s
seat
backward
and
,
in
his
reedy
but
modulated
tenor
voice
,
gave
us
the
new
installment
of
"
The
Laughing
Man
.
"
Once
he
started
narrating
,
our
interest
never
flagged
.
"
The
Laughing
Man
"
was
just
the
right
story
for
a
Comanche
.
It
may
even
have
had
classic
dimensions
.
It
was
a
story
that
tended
to
sprawl
all
over
the
place
,
and
yet
it
remained
essentially
portable
.
You
could
always
take
it
home
with
you
and
reflect
on
it
while
sitting
,
say
,
in
the
outgoing
water
in
the
bathtub
.
The
only
son
of
a
wealthy
missionary
couple
,
the
Laughing
Man
was
kidnapped
in
infancy
by
Chinese
bandits
.
When
the
wealthy
missionary
couple
refused
(
from
a
religious
conviction
)
to
pay
the
ransom
for
their
son
,
the
bandits
,
signally
piqued
,
placed
the
little
fellow
’
s
head
in
a
carpenter
’
s
vise
and
gave
the
appropriate
lever
several
turns
to
the
right
.
