Веснушки
Chapter IV
“Whichtree,Freckles?”
“Idon’tknowexactsir;butit’sontheeastline,andthewireisfastenedtoit.Hebraggedthatyounailedityourself,sir.You’llknowitbythebarkhavingbeenlaidopentothegrainsomewherelowdown.Fivehundreddollarsheofferedme—tobe—sellingyouout—sir!”
Freckles’headrolledoverandhiseyesdroppedshut.McLeantoweredabovethelad.Hisbrighthairwavedonthepillow.Hisfacewasswollen,andpurplewithbruises.Hisleftarm,withthehandbatteredalmostoutofshape,stretchedbesidehim,andtheright,withnohandatall,layacrossachestthatwasamassofpurplewelts.McLean’smindtraveledtothenight,almostayearbefore,whenhehadengagedFreckles,astranger.
TheBossbent,coveringthehurtarmwithonehandandlayingtheotherwithacaressontheboy’sforehead.Frecklesstirredathistouch,andwhisperedassoftlyastheswallowsundertheeaves:“Ifyou’recomingthisway—tomorrow—bepleasedtostepover—andwe’llrepate—thechorussoftly!”
“Blessthegrittydevil,”mutteredMcLean.
ThenhewentoutandtoldMrs.DuncantokeepclosewatchonFreckles,alsotosendDuncantohimattheswamptheminutehecamehome.Followingthetrailtothelineandbacktothescentofthefight,theBossenteredFreckles’studyquietly,asifhisspirit,keepingthere,mightberoused,andgazedaroundwithastonishedeyes.
Howhadtheboyconceivedit?Whatapicturehehadwroughtinlivingcolors!Hehadtheheartofapainter.Hehadthesoulofapoet.
