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- Фрэнк Норрис
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- Спрут: Калифорнийская история
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- Стр. 193/416
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On
this
occasion
,
while
yet
he
was
half
-
dressed
,
Dyke
tiptoed
into
his
mother
’
s
room
to
look
at
Sidney
fast
asleep
in
her
little
iron
cot
,
her
arm
under
her
head
,
her
lips
parted
.
With
infinite
precaution
he
kissed
her
twice
,
and
then
finding
one
little
stocking
,
hung
with
its
mate
very
neatly
over
the
back
of
a
chair
,
dropped
into
it
a
dime
,
rolled
up
in
a
wad
of
paper
.
He
winked
all
to
himself
and
went
out
again
,
closing
the
door
with
exaggerated
carefulness
.
He
breakfasted
alone
,
Mrs
.
Dyke
pouring
his
coffee
and
handing
him
his
plate
of
ham
and
eggs
,
and
half
an
hour
later
took
himself
off
in
his
springless
,
skeleton
wagon
,
humming
a
tune
behind
his
beard
and
cracking
the
whip
over
the
backs
of
his
staid
and
solid
farm
horses
.
The
morning
was
fine
,
the
sun
just
coming
up
.
He
left
Guadalajara
,
sleeping
and
lifeless
,
on
his
left
,
and
going
across
lots
,
over
an
angle
of
Quien
Sabe
,
came
out
upon
the
Upper
Road
,
a
mile
below
the
Long
Trestle
.
He
was
in
great
spirits
,
looking
about
him
over
the
brown
fields
,
ruddy
with
the
dawn
.
Almost
directly
in
front
of
him
,
but
far
off
,
the
gilded
dome
of
the
court
-
house
at
Bonneville
was
glinting
radiant
in
the
first
rays
of
the
sun
,
while
a
few
miles
distant
,
toward
the
north
,
the
venerable
campanile
of
the
Mission
San
Juan
stood
silhouetted
in
purplish
black
against
the
flaming
east
.
As
he
proceeded
,
the
great
farm
horses
jogging
forward
,
placid
,
deliberate
,
the
country
side
waked
to
another
day
.
Crossing
the
irrigating
ditch
further
on
,
he
met
a
gang
of
Portuguese
,
with
picks
and
shovels
over
their
shoulders
,
just
going
to
work
.
Hooven
,
already
abroad
,
shouted
him
a
“
Goot
mornun
”
from
behind
the
fence
of
Los
Muertos
.
Far
off
,
toward
the
southwest
,
in
the
bare
expanse
of
the
open
fields
,
where
a
clump
of
eucalyptus
and
cypress
trees
set
a
dark
green
note
,
a
thin
stream
of
smoke
rose
straight
into
the
air
from
the
kitchen
of
Derrick
’
s
ranch
houses
.
But
a
mile
or
so
beyond
the
Long
Trestle
he
was
surprised
to
see
Magnus
Derrick
’
s
protege
,
the
one
-
time
shepherd
,
Vanamee
,
coming
across
Quien
Sabe
,
by
a
trail
from
one
of
Annixter
’
s
division
houses
.
Without
knowing
exactly
why
,
Dyke
received
the
impression
that
the
young
man
had
not
been
in
bed
all
of
that
night
.
As
the
two
approached
each
other
,
Dyke
eyed
the
young
fellow
.
He
was
distrustful
of
Vanamee
,
having
the
country
-
bred
suspicion
of
any
person
he
could
not
understand
.
Vanamee
was
,
beyond
doubt
,
no
part
of
the
life
of
ranch
and
country
town
.
He
was
an
alien
,
a
vagabond
,
a
strange
fellow
who
came
and
went
in
mysterious
fashion
,
making
no
friends
,
keeping
to
himself
.
Why
did
he
never
wear
a
hat
,
why
indulge
in
a
fine
,
black
,
pointed
beard
,
when
either
a
round
beard
or
a
mustache
was
the
invariable
custom
?
Why
did
he
not
cut
his
hair
?
Above
all
,
why
did
he
prowl
about
so
much
at
night
?
As
the
two
passed
each
other
,
Dyke
,
for
all
his
good
-
nature
,
was
a
little
blunt
in
his
greeting
and
looked
back
at
the
ex
-
shepherd
over
his
shoulder
.
Dyke
was
right
in
his
suspicion
.
Vanamee
’
s
bed
had
not
been
disturbed
for
three
nights
.
On
the
Monday
of
that
week
he
had
passed
the
entire
night
in
the
garden
of
the
Mission
,
overlooking
the
Seed
ranch
,
in
the
little
valley
.
Tuesday
evening
had
found
him
miles
away
from
that
spot
,
in
a
deep
arroyo
in
the
Sierra
foothills
to
the
eastward
,
while
Wednesday
he
had
slept
in
an
abandoned
’
dobe
on
Osterman
’
s
stock
range
,
twenty
miles
from
his
resting
place
of
the
night
before
.
The
fact
of
the
matter
was
that
the
old
restlessness
had
once
more
seized
upon
Vanamee
.
Something
began
tugging
at
him
;
the
spur
of
some
unseen
rider
touched
his
flank
.
The
instinct
of
the
wanderer
woke
and
moved
.
For
some
time
now
he
had
been
a
part
of
the
Los
Muertos
staff
.
On
Quien
Sabe
,
as
on
the
other
ranches
,
the
slack
season
was
at
hand
.
While
waiting
for
the
wheat
to
come
up
no
one
was
doing
much
of
anything
.
Vanamee
had
come
over
to
Los
Muertos
and
spent
most
of
his
days
on
horseback
,
riding
the
range
,
rounding
up
and
watching
the
cattle
in
the
fourth
division
of
the
ranch
.
But
if
the
vagabond
instinct
now
roused
itself
in
the
strange
fellow
’
s
nature
,
a
counter
influence
had
also
set
in
.
More
and
more
Vanamee
frequented
the
Mission
garden
after
nightfall
,
sometimes
remaining
there
till
the
dawn
began
to
whiten
,
lying
prone
on
the
ground
,
his
chin
on
his
folded
arms
,
his
eyes
searching
the
darkness
over
the
little
valley
of
the
Seed
ranch
,
watching
,
watching
.
As
the
days
went
by
,
he
became
more
reticent
than
ever
.
Presley
often
came
to
find
him
on
the
stock
range
,
a
lonely
figure
in
the
great
wilderness
of
bare
,
green
hillsides
,
but
Vanamee
no
longer
took
him
into
his
confidence
.
Father
Sarria
alone
heard
his
strange
stories
.
