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- Фрэнк Норрис
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- Спрут: Калифорнийская история
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- Стр. 412/416
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“
God
,
”
he
said
,
“
this
isn
’
t
going
to
do
at
all
.
”
He
uttered
a
great
shout
.
“
Hello
,
on
deck
there
,
somebody
.
For
God
’
s
sake
.
”
The
steady
,
metallic
roar
of
the
pouring
wheat
drowned
out
his
voice
.
He
could
scarcely
hear
it
himself
above
the
rush
of
the
cataract
.
Besides
this
,
he
found
it
impossible
to
stay
under
the
hatch
.
The
flying
grains
of
wheat
,
spattering
as
they
fell
,
stung
his
face
like
wind
-
driven
particles
of
ice
.
It
was
a
veritable
torture
;
his
hands
smarted
with
it
.
Once
he
was
all
but
blinded
.
Furthermore
,
the
succeeding
waves
of
wheat
,
rolling
from
the
mound
under
the
chute
,
beat
him
back
,
swirling
and
dashing
against
his
legs
and
knees
,
mounting
swiftly
higher
,
carrying
him
off
his
feet
.
Once
more
he
retreated
,
drawing
back
from
beneath
the
hatch
.
He
stood
still
for
a
moment
and
shouted
again
.
It
was
in
vain
.
His
voice
returned
upon
him
,
unable
to
penetrate
the
thunder
of
the
chute
,
and
horrified
,
he
discovered
that
so
soon
as
he
stood
motionless
upon
the
wheat
,
he
sank
into
it
.
Before
he
knew
it
,
he
was
knee
-
deep
again
,
and
a
long
swirl
of
grain
sweeping
outward
from
the
ever
-
breaking
,
ever
-
reforming
pyramid
below
the
chute
,
poured
around
his
thighs
,
immobolising
him
.
A
frenzy
of
terror
suddenly
leaped
to
life
within
him
.
The
horror
of
death
,
the
Fear
of
The
Trap
,
shook
him
like
a
dry
reed
.
Shouting
,
he
tore
himself
free
of
the
wheat
and
once
more
scrambled
and
struggled
towards
the
hatchway
.
He
stumbled
as
he
reached
it
and
fell
directly
beneath
the
pour
.
Like
a
storm
of
small
shot
,
mercilessly
,
pitilessly
,
the
unnumbered
multitude
of
hurtling
grains
flagellated
and
beat
and
tore
his
flesh
.
Blood
streamed
from
his
forehead
and
,
thickening
with
the
powder
-
like
chaff
-
dust
,
blinded
his
eyes
.
He
struggled
to
his
feet
once
more
.
An
avalanche
from
the
cone
of
wheat
buried
him
to
his
thighs
.
He
was
forced
back
and
back
and
back
,
beating
the
air
,
falling
,
rising
,
howling
for
aid
.
He
could
no
longer
see
;
his
eyes
,
crammed
with
dust
,
smarted
as
if
transfixed
with
needles
whenever
he
opened
them
.
His
mouth
was
full
of
the
dust
,
his
lips
were
dry
with
it
;
thirst
tortured
him
,
while
his
outcries
choked
and
gagged
in
his
rasped
throat
.
And
all
the
while
without
stop
,
incessantly
,
inexorably
,
the
wheat
,
as
if
moving
with
a
force
all
its
own
,
shot
downward
in
a
prolonged
roar
,
persistent
,
steady
,
inevitable
.
He
retreated
to
a
far
corner
of
the
hold
and
sat
down
with
his
back
against
the
iron
hull
of
the
ship
and
tried
to
collect
his
thoughts
,
to
calm
himself
.
Surely
there
must
be
some
way
of
escape
;
surely
he
was
not
to
die
like
this
,
die
in
this
dreadful
substance
that
was
neither
solid
nor
fluid
.
What
was
he
to
do
?
How
make
himself
heard
?
But
even
as
he
thought
about
this
,
the
cone
under
the
chute
broke
again
and
sent
a
great
layer
of
grain
rippling
and
tumbling
toward
him
.
It
reached
him
where
he
sat
and
buried
his
hand
and
one
foot
.
He
sprang
up
trembling
and
made
for
another
corner
.
“
By
God
,
”
he
cried
,
“
by
God
,
I
must
think
of
something
pretty
quick
!
”
