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- Фрэнк Норрис
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- Спрут: Калифорнийская история
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- Стр. 391/416
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One
of
the
sack
sewers
interposed
:
“
For
the
last
half
hour
we
’
ve
been
throwing
off
three
bags
to
the
minute
.
”
“
That
’
s
good
,
that
’
s
good
.
”
It
was
more
than
good
;
it
was
“
bonanza
,
”
and
all
that
division
of
the
great
ranch
was
thick
with
just
such
wonderful
wheat
.
Never
had
Los
Muertos
been
more
generous
,
never
a
season
more
successful
.
S
.
Behrman
drew
a
long
breath
of
satisfaction
.
He
knew
just
how
great
was
his
share
in
the
lands
which
had
just
been
absorbed
by
the
corporation
he
served
,
just
how
many
thousands
of
bushels
of
this
marvellous
crop
were
his
property
.
Through
all
these
years
of
confusion
,
bickerings
,
open
hostility
and
,
at
last
,
actual
warfare
he
had
waited
,
nursing
his
patience
,
calm
with
the
firm
assurance
of
ultimate
success
.
The
end
,
at
length
,
had
come
;
he
had
entered
into
his
reward
and
saw
himself
at
last
installed
in
the
place
he
had
so
long
,
so
silently
coveted
;
saw
himself
chief
of
a
principality
,
the
Master
of
the
Wheat
.
The
sprocket
adjusted
,
the
engineer
called
up
the
gang
and
the
men
took
their
places
.
The
fireman
stoked
vigorously
,
the
two
sack
sewers
resumed
their
posts
on
the
sacking
platform
,
putting
on
the
goggles
that
kept
the
chaff
from
their
eyes
.
The
separator
-
man
and
header
-
man
gripped
their
levers
.
The
harvester
,
shooting
a
column
of
thick
smoke
straight
upward
,
vibrating
to
the
top
of
the
stack
,
hissed
,
clanked
,
and
lurched
forward
.
Instantly
,
motion
sprang
to
life
in
all
its
component
parts
;
the
header
knives
,
cutting
a
thirty
-
six
foot
swath
,
gnashed
like
teeth
;
beltings
slid
and
moved
like
smooth
flowing
streams
;
the
separator
whirred
,
the
agitator
jarred
and
crashed
;
cylinders
,
augers
,
fans
,
seeders
and
elevators
,
drapers
and
chaff
-
carriers
clattered
,
rumbled
,
buzzed
,
and
clanged
.
The
steam
hissed
and
rasped
;
the
ground
reverberated
a
hollow
note
,
and
the
thousands
upon
thousands
of
wheat
stalks
sliced
and
slashed
in
the
clashing
shears
of
the
header
,
rattled
like
dry
rushes
in
a
hurricane
,
as
they
fell
inward
,
and
were
caught
up
by
an
endless
belt
,
to
disappear
into
the
bowels
of
the
vast
brute
that
devoured
them
.
It
was
that
and
no
less
.
It
was
the
feeding
of
some
prodigious
monster
,
insatiable
,
with
iron
teeth
,
gnashing
and
threshing
into
the
fields
of
standing
wheat
;
devouring
always
,
never
glutted
,
never
satiated
,
swallowing
an
entire
harvest
,
snarling
and
slobbering
in
a
welter
of
warm
vapour
,
acrid
smoke
,
and
blinding
,
pungent
clouds
of
chaff
.
It
moved
belly
-
deep
in
the
standing
grain
,
a
hippopotamus
,
half
-
mired
in
river
ooze
,
gorging
rushes
,
snorting
,
sweating
;
a
dinosaur
wallowing
through
thick
,
hot
grasses
,
floundering
there
,
crouching
,
grovelling
there
as
its
vast
jaws
crushed
and
tore
,
and
its
enormous
gullet
swallowed
,
incessant
,
ravenous
,
and
inordinate
.
S
.
Behrman
,
very
much
amused
,
changed
places
with
one
of
the
sack
sewers
,
allowing
him
to
hold
his
horse
while
he
mounted
the
sacking
platform
and
took
his
place
.
The
trepidation
and
jostling
of
the
machine
shook
him
till
his
teeth
chattered
in
his
head
.
His
ears
were
shocked
and
assaulted
by
a
myriad
-
tongued
clamour
,
clashing
steel
,
straining
belts
,
jarring
woodwork
,
while
the
impalpable
chaff
powder
from
the
separators
settled
like
dust
in
his
hair
,
his
ears
,
eyes
,
and
mouth
.
Directly
in
front
of
where
he
sat
on
the
platform
was
the
chute
from
the
cleaner
,
and
from
this
into
the
mouth
of
a
half
-
full
sack
spouted
an
unending
gush
of
grain
,
winnowed
,
cleaned
,
threshed
,
ready
for
the
mill
.
