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- Фрэнк Норрис
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- Спрут: Калифорнийская история
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- Стр. 411/416
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A
great
iron
chute
connected
this
hatch
with
the
elevator
,
and
through
it
was
rushing
a
veritable
cataract
of
wheat
.
It
came
from
some
gigantic
bin
within
the
elevator
itself
,
rushing
down
the
confines
of
the
chute
to
plunge
into
the
roomy
,
gloomy
interior
of
the
hold
with
an
incessant
,
metallic
roar
,
persistent
,
steady
,
inevitable
.
No
men
were
in
sight
.
The
place
was
deserted
.
No
human
agency
seemed
to
be
back
of
the
movement
of
the
wheat
.
Rather
,
the
grain
seemed
impelled
with
a
force
of
its
own
,
a
resistless
,
huge
force
,
eager
,
vivid
,
impatient
for
the
sea
.
S
.
Behrman
stood
watching
,
his
ears
deafened
with
the
roar
of
the
hard
grains
against
the
metallic
lining
of
the
chute
.
He
put
his
hand
once
into
the
rushing
tide
,
and
the
contact
rasped
the
flesh
of
his
fingers
and
like
an
undertow
drew
his
hand
after
it
in
its
impetuous
dash
.
Cautiously
he
peered
down
into
the
hold
.
A
musty
odour
rose
to
his
nostrils
,
the
vigorous
,
pungent
aroma
of
the
raw
cereal
.
It
was
dark
.
He
could
see
nothing
;
but
all
about
and
over
the
opening
of
the
hatch
the
air
was
full
of
a
fine
,
impalpable
dust
that
blinded
the
eyes
and
choked
the
throat
and
nostrils
.
As
his
eyes
became
used
to
the
shadows
of
the
cavern
below
him
,
he
began
to
distinguish
the
grey
mass
of
the
wheat
,
a
great
expanse
,
almost
liquid
in
its
texture
,
which
,
as
the
cataract
from
above
plunged
into
it
,
moved
and
shifted
in
long
,
slow
eddies
.
As
he
stood
there
,
this
cataract
on
a
sudden
increased
in
volume
.
He
turned
about
,
casting
his
eyes
upward
toward
the
elevator
to
discover
the
cause
.
His
foot
caught
in
a
coil
of
rope
,
and
he
fell
headforemost
into
the
hold
.
The
fall
was
a
long
one
and
he
struck
the
surface
of
the
wheat
with
the
sodden
impact
of
a
bundle
of
damp
clothes
.
For
the
moment
he
was
stunned
.
All
the
breath
was
driven
from
his
body
.
He
could
neither
move
nor
cry
out
.
But
,
by
degrees
,
his
wits
steadied
themselves
and
his
breath
returned
to
him
.
He
looked
about
and
above
him
.
The
daylight
in
the
hold
was
dimmed
and
clouded
by
the
thick
,
chaff
-
dust
thrown
off
by
the
pour
of
grain
,
and
even
this
dimness
dwindled
to
twilight
at
a
short
distance
from
the
opening
of
the
hatch
,
while
the
remotest
quarters
were
lost
in
impenetrable
blackness
.
He
got
upon
his
feet
only
to
find
that
he
sunk
ankle
deep
in
the
loose
packed
mass
underfoot
.
“
Hell
,
”
he
muttered
,
“
here
’
s
a
fix
.
”
Directly
underneath
the
chute
,
the
wheat
,
as
it
poured
in
,
raised
itself
in
a
conical
mound
,
but
from
the
sides
of
this
mound
it
shunted
away
incessantly
in
thick
layers
,
flowing
in
all
directions
with
the
nimbleness
of
water
.
Even
as
S
.
Behrman
spoke
,
a
wave
of
grain
poured
around
his
legs
and
rose
rapidly
to
the
level
of
his
knees
.
He
stepped
quickly
back
.
To
stay
near
the
chute
would
soon
bury
him
to
the
waist
.
No
doubt
,
there
was
some
other
exit
from
the
hold
,
some
companion
ladder
that
led
up
to
the
deck
.
He
scuffled
and
waded
across
the
wheat
,
groping
in
the
dark
with
outstretched
hands
.
With
every
inhalation
he
choked
,
filling
his
mouth
and
nostrils
more
with
dust
than
with
air
.
At
times
he
could
not
breathe
at
all
,
but
gagged
and
gasped
,
his
lips
distended
.
But
search
as
he
would
he
could
find
no
outlet
to
the
hold
,
no
stairway
,
no
companion
ladder
.
Again
and
again
,
staggering
along
in
the
black
darkness
,
he
bruised
his
knuckles
and
forehead
against
the
iron
sides
of
the
ship
.
He
gave
up
the
attempt
to
find
any
interior
means
of
escape
and
returned
laboriously
to
the
space
under
the
open
hatchway
.
Already
he
could
see
that
the
level
of
the
wheat
was
raised
.
