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- Джон Стейнбек
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And
after
they
’
d
licked
me
unconscious
they
jumped
on
me
and
broke
my
right
arm
.
And
then
they
set
fire
to
my
mother
’
s
house
.
My
mother
pulled
me
out
in
the
front
yard
.
"
"
What
happened
?
"
Jim
asked
.
"
What
were
you
doing
?
"
The
sarcasm
came
back
into
Mac
’
s
voice
.
"
Me
?
I
was
subverting
the
government
.
I
’
d
made
a
speech
saying
there
were
some
people
starving
.
"
He
stood
up
.
"
Let
’
s
go
back
,
Jim
.
They
ought
to
have
the
dishes
washed
up
by
now
.
I
didn
’
t
mean
to
get
bitter
,
but
somehow
that
busted
arm
still
makes
me
mad
.
"
They
walked
slowly
back
down
the
path
.
A
few
men
on
the
benches
pulled
in
their
legs
to
let
them
by
.
Jim
said
,
"
If
you
can
ever
put
in
a
word
,
Mac
,
so
I
can
get
out
in
the
field
to
work
,
I
’
ll
be
glad
.
"
"
O
.
K
.
But
you
’
d
better
learn
to
cut
stencils
and
run
a
mimeograph
.
You
’
re
a
good
kid
;
I
’
m
glad
to
have
you
with
us
.
"
Jim
sat
under
the
hard
white
light
typewriting
letters
.
Occasionally
he
stopped
and
listened
,
his
ears
turned
toward
the
door
.
Except
for
a
kettle
simmering
huskily
in
the
kitchen
,
the
house
was
still
.
The
soft
roar
of
streetcars
on
distant
streets
,
the
slap
of
feet
on
the
pavement
in
front
only
made
the
inside
seem
more
quiet
.
He
looked
up
at
the
alarm
clock
hanging
to
a
nail
on
the
wall
.
He
got
up
and
went
into
the
kitchen
and
stirred
the
stew
,
and
turned
down
the
gas
until
each
jet
held
a
tiny
blue
globe
.
As
he
went
back
to
the
typewriter
he
heard
quick
steps
on
the
gravelled
path
.
Dick
came
bursting
into
the
house
.
"
Mac
’
s
not
here
yet
?
"
"
No
,
"
said
Jim
.
"
He
hasn
’
t
got
here
.
Neither
has
Joy
.
Collect
any
money
today
?
"
"
Twenty
dollars
,
"
said
Dick
.
