-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Джон Стейнбек
-
- Зима тревоги нашей
-
- Стр. 53/385
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
"
All
right
,
"
he
’
d
say
,
in
a
voice
that
needed
no
megaphone
from
the
bridge
,
"
sing
out
the
full
rig
,
and
sing
it
loud
.
I
hate
whispering
.
"
And
I
would
sing
out
,
and
he
’
d
whack
the
pile
with
his
narwhal
stick
at
every
beat
.
"
Flying
jib
,
"
I
’
d
sing
(
whack
)
,
"
outer
jib
"
(
whack
)
,
"
inner
jib
,
jib
"
(
whack
!
whack
!
)
.
"
Sing
out
!
You
’
re
whispering
.
"
"
Fore
skys
’
l
,
fore
royal
,
fore
topgal
’
n
’
t
s
’
l
,
fore
upper
tops
’
l
,
fore
lower
tops
’
l
,
fores
’
l
"
—
and
every
one
a
whack
.
"
Main
!
Sing
out
.
"
"
Main
skys
’
l
"
—
whack
.
But
sometimes
,
as
he
got
older
,
he
would
tire
.
"
Belay
the
main
,
"
he
would
shout
.
"
Get
to
the
mizzen
.
Sing
out
now
.
"
"
Aye
,
sir
.
Mizzen
skys
’
l
,
mizzen
royal
,
mizzen
t
’
gal
’
n
’
t
,
mizzen
upper
tops
’
l
,
mizzen
lower
tops
’
l
,
crossjack
—
"
"
And
?
"
"
Spanker
.
"
