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- Джон Стейнбек
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"
I
can
’
t
see
this
path
,
"
Mac
said
.
"
I
’
ll
just
have
to
feel
it
with
my
feet
.
"
He
moved
carefully
,
slowly
.
"
Hold
up
your
arms
to
protect
your
face
,
Jim
.
"
"
I
am
.
I
got
switched
right
across
the
mouth
a
minute
ago
.
"
For
a
while
they
felt
their
way
along
the
hard
,
used
trail
.
"
I
smell
smoke
,
"
Jim
said
.
"
It
can
’
t
be
far
now
.
"
Suddenly
Mac
stopped
.
"
There
’
s
lights
ahead
.
Listen
,
Jim
,
the
same
thing
goes
as
back
there
.
Let
me
do
the
talking
.
"
"
O
.
K
.
"
The
trail
came
abruptly
into
a
large
clearing
,
flickeringly
lighted
by
a
little
bonfire
.
Along
the
farther
side
were
three
dirty
white
tents
;
and
in
one
of
them
a
light
burned
and
huge
black
figures
moved
on
the
canvas
.
In
the
clearing
itself
there
were
perhaps
fifty
men
,
some
sleeping
on
the
ground
in
sausage
rolls
of
blankets
,
while
a
number
sat
around
the
little
fire
in
the
middle
of
the
flat
cleared
place
.
As
Jim
and
Mac
stepped
clear
of
the
willows
they
heard
a
short
,
sharp
cry
,
quickly
checked
,
which
came
from
the
lighted
tent
.
Immediately
the
great
shadows
moved
nervously
on
the
canvas
.
"
Somebody
’
s
sick
,
"
Mac
said
softly
.
"
We
didn
’
t
hear
it
yet
.
It
pays
to
appear
to
mind
your
own
business
.
"
They
moved
toward
the
fire
,
where
a
ring
of
men
sat
clasping
their
knees
.
"
Can
a
guy
join
this
club
?
"
Mac
asked
,
"
or
does
he
got
to
be
elected
?
"
The
faces
of
the
men
were
turned
up
at
him
,
unshaven
faces
with
eyes
in
which
the
firelight
glowed
.
One
of
the
men
moved
sideways
to
make
room
.
"
Ground
’
s
free
,
mister
.
"
Mac
chuckled
.
"
Not
where
I
come
from
.
"
A
lean
,
lighted
face
across
the
fire
spoke
.
"
You
come
to
a
good
place
,
fella
.
