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- Джон Джон Бакен
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- Стр. 19/83
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"
Man
,
I
've
often
thought
that
an
innkeeper
would
make
the
best
story-teller
in
the
world
.
"
"
Not
now
,
"
he
said
eagerly
.
"
Maybe
in
the
old
days
when
you
had
pilgrims
and
ballad-makers
and
highwaymen
and
mail-coaches
on
the
road
.
But
not
now
.
Nothing
comes
here
but
motor-cars
full
of
fat
women
,
who
stop
for
lunch
,
and
a
fisherman
or
two
in
the
spring
,
and
the
shooting
tenants
in
August
.
There
is
not
much
material
to
be
got
out
of
that
.
I
want
to
see
life
,
to
travel
the
world
,
and
write
things
like
Kipling
and
Conrad
.
But
the
most
I
've
done
yet
is
to
get
some
verses
printed
in
Chambers
's
Journal
.
"
I
looked
at
the
inn
standing
golden
in
the
sunset
against
the
brown
hills
.
"
I
've
knocked
a
bit
about
the
world
,
and
I
would
n't
despise
such
a
hermitage
.
D'you
think
that
adventure
is
found
only
in
the
tropics
or
among
gentry
in
red
shirts
?
Maybe
you
're
rubbing
shoulders
with
it
at
this
moment
.
"
"
That
's
what
Kipling
says
,
"
he
said
,
his
eyes
brightening
,
and
he
quoted
some
verse
about
"
Romance
brings
up
the
9.15
.
"
"
Here
's
a
true
tale
for
you
then
,
"
I
cried
,
"
and
a
month
from
now
you
can
make
a
novel
out
of
it
.
"
Sitting
on
the
bridge
in
the
soft
May
gloaming
I
pitched
him
a
lovely
yarn
.
It
was
true
in
essentials
,
too
,
though
I
altered
the
minor
details
.
I
made
out
that
I
was
a
mining
magnate
from
Kimberley
,
who
had
had
a
lot
of
trouble
with
I.D.B.
and
had
shown
up
a
gang
.
They
had
pursued
me
across
the
ocean
,
and
had
killed
my
best
friend
,
and
were
now
on
my
tracks
.
I
told
the
story
well
,
though
I
say
it
who
should
n't
.
I
pictured
a
flight
across
the
Kalahari
to
German
Africa
,
the
crackling
,
parching
days
,
the
wonderful
blue-velvet
nights
.
I
described
an
attack
on
my
life
on
the
voyage
home
,
and
I
made
a
really
horrid
affair
of
the
Portland
Place
murder
.
"
You
're
looking
for
adventure
,
"
I
cried
;
"
well
,
you
've
found
it
here
.
The
devils
are
after
me
,
and
the
police
are
after
them
.
It
's
a
race
that
I
mean
to
win
.
"
"
By
God
!
"
he
whispered
,
drawing
his
breath
in
sharply
,
"
it
is
all
pure
Rider
Haggard
and
Conan
Doyle
.
"
