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- Фрэнк Норрис
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- Спрут: Калифорнийская история
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- Стр. 182/416
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But
abruptly
,
while
the
four
men
stood
there
,
gazing
into
each
other
’
s
faces
,
a
vigorous
hand
-
clapping
broke
out
.
The
raffle
of
Hartrath
’
s
picture
was
over
,
and
as
Presley
turned
about
he
saw
Mrs
.
Cedarquist
and
her
two
daughters
signalling
eagerly
to
the
manufacturer
,
unable
to
reach
him
because
of
the
intervening
crowd
.
Then
Mrs
.
Cedarquist
raised
her
voice
and
cried
:
“
I
’
ve
won
.
I
’
ve
won
.
”
Unnoticed
,
and
with
but
a
brief
word
to
Cedarquist
,
Magnus
and
Harran
went
down
the
marble
steps
leading
to
the
street
door
,
silent
,
Harran
’
s
arm
tight
around
his
father
’
s
shoulder
.
At
once
the
orchestra
struck
into
a
lively
air
.
A
renewed
murmur
of
conversation
broke
out
,
and
Cedarquist
,
as
he
said
good
-
bye
to
Presley
,
looked
first
at
the
retreating
figures
of
the
ranchers
,
then
at
the
gayly
dressed
throng
of
beautiful
women
and
debonair
young
men
,
and
indicating
the
whole
scene
with
a
single
gesture
,
said
,
smiling
sadly
as
he
spoke
:
“
Not
a
city
,
Presley
,
not
a
city
,
but
a
Midway
Plaisance
.
”
Underneath
the
Long
Trestle
where
Broderson
Creek
cut
the
line
of
the
railroad
and
the
Upper
Road
,
the
ground
was
low
and
covered
with
a
second
growth
of
grey
green
willows
.
Along
the
borders
of
the
creek
were
occasional
marshy
spots
,
and
now
and
then
Hilma
Tree
came
here
to
gather
water
-
cresses
,
which
she
made
into
salads
.
The
place
was
picturesque
,
secluded
,
an
oasis
of
green
shade
in
all
the
limitless
,
flat
monotony
of
the
surrounding
wheat
lands
.
The
creek
had
eroded
deep
into
the
little
gully
,
and
no
matter
how
hot
it
was
on
the
baking
,
shimmering
levels
of
the
ranches
above
,
down
here
one
always
found
one
’
s
self
enveloped
in
an
odorous
,
moist
coolness
.
From
time
to
time
,
the
incessant
murmur
of
the
creek
,
pouring
over
and
around
the
larger
stones
,
was
interrupted
by
the
thunder
of
trains
roaring
out
upon
the
trestle
overhead
,
passing
on
with
the
furious
gallop
of
their
hundreds
of
iron
wheels
,
leaving
in
the
air
a
taint
of
hot
oil
,
acrid
smoke
,
and
reek
of
escaping
steam
.
On
a
certain
afternoon
,
in
the
spring
of
the
year
,
Hilma
was
returning
to
Quien
Sabe
from
Hooven
’
s
by
the
trail
that
led
from
Los
Muertos
to
Annixter
’
s
ranch
houses
,
under
the
trestle
.
She
had
spent
the
afternoon
with
Minna
Hooven
,
who
,
for
the
time
being
,
was
kept
indoors
because
of
a
wrenched
ankle
.
As
Hilma
descended
into
the
gravel
flats
and
thickets
of
willows
underneath
the
trestle
,
she
decided
that
she
would
gather
some
cresses
for
her
supper
that
night
.
She
found
a
spot
around
the
base
of
one
of
the
supports
of
the
trestle
where
the
cresses
grew
thickest
,
and
plucked
a
couple
of
handfuls
,
washing
them
in
the
creek
and
pinning
them
up
in
her
handkerchief
.
It
made
a
little
,
round
,
cold
bundle
,
and
Hilma
,
warm
from
her
walk
,
found
a
delicious
enjoyment
in
pressing
the
damp
ball
of
it
to
her
cheeks
and
neck
.
For
all
the
change
that
Annixter
had
noted
in
her
upon
the
occasion
of
the
barn
dance
,
Hilma
remained
in
many
things
a
young
child
.
She
was
never
at
loss
for
enjoyment
,
and
could
always
amuse
herself
when
left
alone
.
Just
now
,
she
chose
to
drink
from
the
creek
,
lying
prone
on
the
ground
,
her
face
half
-
buried
in
the
water
,
and
this
,
not
because
she
was
thirsty
,
but
because
it
was
a
new
way
to
drink
.
She
imagined
herself
a
belated
traveller
,
a
poor
girl
,
an
outcast
,
quenching
her
thirst
at
the
wayside
brook
,
her
little
packet
of
cresses
doing
duty
for
a
bundle
of
clothes
.
Night
was
coming
on
.
Perhaps
it
would
storm
.
She
had
nowhere
to
go
.
She
would
apply
at
a
hut
for
shelter
.
