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- Фрэнк Норрис
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- Спрут: Калифорнийская история
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- Стр. 161/416
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Billy
,
the
stableman
,
and
his
assistant
were
awakened
,
and
the
teams
were
hitched
up
.
The
stable
yard
was
full
of
a
maze
of
swinging
lanterns
and
buggy
lamps
.
The
horses
fretted
,
champing
the
bits
;
the
carry
-
alls
creaked
with
the
straining
of
leather
and
springs
as
they
received
their
loads
.
At
every
instant
one
heard
the
rattle
of
wheels
as
vehicle
after
vehicle
disappeared
in
the
night
.
A
fine
,
drizzling
rain
was
falling
,
and
the
lamps
began
to
show
dim
in
a
vague
haze
of
orange
light
.
Magnus
Derrick
was
the
last
to
go
.
At
the
doorway
of
the
barn
he
found
Annixter
,
the
roll
of
names
—
which
it
had
been
decided
he
was
to
keep
in
his
safe
for
the
moment
—
under
his
arm
.
Silently
the
two
shook
hands
.
Magnus
departed
.
The
grind
of
the
wheels
of
his
carry
-
all
grated
sharply
on
the
gravel
of
the
driveway
in
front
of
the
ranch
house
,
then
,
with
a
hollow
roll
across
a
little
plank
bridge
,
gained
the
roadway
.
For
a
moment
the
beat
of
the
horses
’
hoofs
made
itself
heard
on
the
roadway
.
It
ceased
.
Suddenly
there
was
a
great
silence
.
Annixter
,
in
the
doorway
of
the
great
barn
,
stood
looking
about
him
for
a
moment
,
alone
,
thoughtful
.
The
barn
was
empty
.
That
astonishing
evening
had
come
to
an
end
.
The
whirl
of
things
and
people
,
the
crowd
of
dancers
,
Delaney
,
the
gun
fight
,
Hilma
Tree
,
her
eyes
fixed
on
him
in
mute
confession
,
the
rabble
in
the
harness
room
,
the
news
of
the
regrade
,
the
fierce
outburst
of
wrath
,
the
hasty
organising
of
the
League
,
all
went
spinning
confusedly
through
his
recollection
.
But
he
was
exhausted
.
Time
enough
in
the
morning
to
think
it
all
over
.
By
now
it
was
raining
sharply
.
He
put
the
roll
of
names
into
his
inside
pocket
,
threw
a
sack
over
his
head
and
shoulders
,
and
went
down
to
the
ranch
house
.
But
in
the
harness
room
,
lighted
by
the
glittering
lanterns
and
flaring
lamps
,
in
the
midst
of
overturned
chairs
,
spilled
liquor
,
cigar
stumps
,
and
broken
glasses
,
Vanamee
and
Presley
still
remained
talking
,
talking
.
At
length
,
they
rose
,
and
came
out
upon
the
floor
of
the
barn
and
stood
for
a
moment
looking
about
them
Billy
,
the
stableman
,
was
going
the
rounds
of
the
walls
,
putting
out
light
after
light
.
By
degrees
,
the
vast
interior
was
growing
dim
.
Upon
the
roof
overhead
the
rain
drummed
incessantly
,
the
eaves
dripping
.
The
floor
was
littered
with
pine
needles
,
bits
of
orange
peel
,
ends
and
fragments
of
torn
organdies
and
muslins
and
bits
of
tissue
paper
from
the
“
Phrygian
Bonnets
”
and
“
Liberty
Caps
.
”
The
buckskin
mare
in
the
stall
,
dozing
on
three
legs
,
changed
position
with
a
long
sigh
.
The
sweat
stiffening
the
hair
upon
her
back
and
loins
,
as
it
dried
,
gave
off
a
penetrating
,
ammoniacal
odour
that
mingled
with
the
stale
perfume
of
sachet
and
wilted
flowers
.
Presley
and
Vanamee
stood
looking
at
the
deserted
barn
.
There
was
a
long
silence
.
Then
Presley
said
:
“
Well
.
.
.
what
do
you
think
of
it
all
?
”
“
I
think
,
”
answered
Vanamee
slowly
,
“
I
think
that
there
was
a
dance
in
Brussels
the
night
before
Waterloo
.
”
In
his
office
at
San
Francisco
,
seated
before
a
massive
desk
of
polished
redwood
,
very
ornate
,
Lyman
Derrick
sat
dictating
letters
to
his
typewriter
,
on
a
certain
morning
early
in
the
spring
of
the
year
.
The
subdued
monotone
of
his
voice
proceeded
evenly
from
sentence
to
sentence
,
regular
,
precise
,
businesslike
.
