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- Фрэнк Норрис
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- Спрут: Калифорнийская история
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- Стр. 205/416
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“
And
now
it
’
s
your
turn
,
”
he
vociferated
.
“
They
ain
’
t
after
only
the
big
wheat
-
growers
,
the
rich
men
.
By
God
,
they
’
ll
even
pick
the
poor
man
’
s
pocket
.
Oh
,
they
’
ll
get
their
bellies
full
some
day
.
It
can
’
t
last
forever
.
They
’
ll
wake
up
the
wrong
kind
of
man
some
morning
,
the
man
that
’
s
got
guts
in
him
,
that
will
hit
back
when
he
’
s
kicked
and
that
will
talk
to
’
em
with
a
torch
in
one
hand
and
a
stick
of
dynamite
in
the
other
.
”
He
raised
his
clenched
fists
in
the
air
.
“
So
help
me
,
God
,
”
he
cried
,
“
when
I
think
it
all
over
I
go
crazy
,
I
see
red
.
Oh
,
if
the
people
only
knew
their
strength
.
Oh
,
if
I
could
wake
’
em
up
.
There
’
s
not
only
Shelgrim
,
but
there
’
s
others
.
All
the
magnates
,
all
the
butchers
,
all
the
blood
-
suckers
,
by
the
thousands
.
Their
day
will
come
,
by
God
,
it
will
.
”
By
now
,
the
ex
-
engineer
and
the
bar
-
keeper
had
retired
to
the
saloon
back
of
the
grocery
to
talk
over
the
details
of
this
new
outrage
.
Dyke
,
still
a
little
dazed
,
sat
down
by
one
of
the
tables
,
preoccupied
,
saying
but
little
,
and
Caraher
as
a
matter
of
course
set
the
whiskey
bottle
at
his
elbow
.
It
happened
that
at
this
same
moment
,
Presley
,
returning
to
Los
Muertos
from
Bonneville
,
his
pockets
full
of
mail
,
stopped
in
at
the
grocery
to
buy
some
black
lead
for
his
bicycle
.
In
the
saloon
,
on
the
other
side
of
the
narrow
partition
,
he
overheard
the
conversation
between
Dyke
and
Caraher
.
The
door
was
open
.
He
caught
every
word
distinctly
.
“
Tell
us
all
about
it
,
Dyke
,
”
urged
Caraher
.
For
the
fiftieth
time
Dyke
told
the
story
.
Already
it
had
crystallised
into
a
certain
form
.
He
used
the
same
phrases
with
each
repetition
,
the
same
sentences
,
the
same
words
.
In
his
mind
it
became
set
.
Thus
he
would
tell
it
to
any
one
who
would
listen
from
now
on
,
week
after
week
,
year
after
year
,
all
the
rest
of
his
life
—
“
And
I
based
my
calculations
on
a
two
-
cent
rate
.
So
soon
as
they
saw
I
was
to
make
money
they
doubled
the
tariff
—
all
the
traffic
would
bear
—
and
I
mortgaged
to
S
.
Behrman
—
ruined
me
with
a
turn
of
the
hand
—
stuck
,
cinched
,
and
not
one
thing
to
be
done
.
”
As
he
talked
,
he
drank
glass
after
glass
of
whiskey
,
and
the
honest
rage
,
the
open
,
above
-
board
fury
of
his
mind
coagulated
,
thickened
,
and
sunk
to
a
dull
,
evil
hatred
,
a
wicked
,
oblique
malevolence
.
Caraher
,
sure
now
of
winning
a
disciple
,
replenished
his
glass
.
“
Do
you
blame
us
now
,
”
he
cried
,
“
us
others
,
the
Reds
?
Ah
,
yes
,
it
’
s
all
very
well
for
your
middle
class
to
preach
moderation
.
I
could
do
it
,
too
.
You
could
do
it
,
too
,
if
your
belly
was
fed
,
if
your
property
was
safe
,
if
your
wife
had
not
been
murdered
if
your
children
were
not
starving
.
Easy
enough
then
to
preach
law
-
abiding
methods
,
legal
redress
,
and
all
such
rot
.
But
how
about
US
?
”
he
vociferated
.
“
Ah
,
yes
,
I
’
m
a
loud
-
mouthed
rum
-
seller
,
ain
’
t
I
?
I
’
m
a
wild
-
eyed
striker
,
ain
’
t
I
?
I
’
m
a
blood
-
thirsty
anarchist
,
ain
’
t
I
?
Wait
till
you
’
ve
seen
your
wife
brought
home
to
you
with
the
face
you
used
to
kiss
smashed
in
by
a
horse
’
s
hoof
—
killed
by
the
Trust
,
as
it
happened
to
me
.
Then
talk
about
moderation
!
And
you
,
Dyke
,
black
-
listed
engineer
,
discharged
employee
,
ruined
agriculturist
,
wait
till
you
see
your
little
tad
and
your
mother
turned
out
of
doors
when
S
.
Behrman
forecloses
.
Wait
till
you
see
’
em
getting
thin
and
white
,
and
till
you
hear
your
little
girl
ask
you
why
you
all
don
’
t
eat
a
little
more
and
that
she
wants
her
dinner
and
you
can
’
t
give
it
to
her
.
Wait
till
you
see
—
at
the
same
time
that
your
family
is
dying
for
lack
of
bread
—
a
hundred
thousand
acres
of
wheat
—
millions
of
bushels
of
food
—
grabbed
and
gobbled
by
the
Railroad
Trust
,
and
then
talk
of
moderation
.
That
talk
is
just
what
the
Trust
wants
to
hear
.
It
ain
’
t
frightened
of
that
.
There
’
s
one
thing
only
it
does
listen
to
,
one
thing
it
is
frightened
of
—
the
people
with
dynamite
in
their
hands
,
—
six
inches
of
plugged
gaspipe
.
THAT
talks
.
”
Dyke
did
not
reply
.
He
filled
another
pony
of
whiskey
and
drank
it
in
two
gulps
.
