Межзвёздный скиталец
Chapter 11
Camestepsandmovements—stepsopenlyadvertisedassuppressedwiththeintentofsilenceandthatyetweredeliberatelynoisywiththesecretintentofrousingmeifIstillslept.Ismiledinwardlyattherascal’strick.
“Pons,”Iordered,withoutopeningmyeyes,“water,coldwater,quick,adeluge.Idrankoverlonglastnight,andnowmygulletscorches.”
“Andsleptoverlongto-day,”hescolded,ashepassedmethewater,readyinhishand.
Isatup,openedmyeyes,andcarriedthetankardtomylipswithbothmyhands.AndasIdrankIlookedatPons.
Nownotetwothings.IspokeinFrench;IwasnotconsciousthatIspokeinFrench.Notuntilafterward,backinsolitary,whenIrememberedwhatIamnarrating,didIknowthatIhadspokeninFrench—ay,andspokenwell.Asforme,DarrellStanding,atpresentwritingtheselinesinMurderers’RowofFolsomPrison,why,IknowonlyhighschoolFrenchsufficienttoenablemetoreadthelanguage.Asformyspeakingit—impossible.Icanscarcelyintelligiblypronouncemywaythroughamenu.
Buttoreturn.Ponswasalittlewitheredoldman.Hewasborninourhouse—Iknow,foritchancedthatmentionwasmadeofitthisverydayIamdescribing.Ponswasallofsixtyyears.
