Сестра Керри

Chapter XLVII. The Way Of The Beaten: A Harp In The Wind

           “ForGod’ssake,do;I’mstarving.”

           “Aw,getout,”saidtheman,whohappenedtobeacommontypehimself.“You’renogood.I’llgiveyounawthin’.”

           Hurstwoodputhishands,redfromcold,downinhispockets.Tearscameintohiseyes.

           “That’sright,”hesaid;“I’mnogoodnow.Iwasallright.Ihadmoney.I’mgoingtoquitthis,”and,withdeathinhisheart,hestarteddowntowardtheBowery.Peoplehadturnedonthegasbeforeanddied;whyshouldn’the?Herememberedalodging-housewheretherewerelittle,closerooms,withgas-jetsinthem,almostpre-arranged,hethought,forwhathewantedtodo,whichrentedforfifteencents.Thenherememberedthathehadnofifteencents.

           Onthewayhemetacomfortable-lookinggentleman,coming,clean-shaven,outofafinebarbershop.

           “Wouldyoumindgivingmealittlesomething?”heaskedthismanboldly.

           Thegentlemanlookedhimoverandfishedforadime.Nothingbutquarterswereinhispocket.

           “Here,”hesaid,handinghimone,toberidofhim.“Beoff,now.”

           Hurstwoodmovedon,wondering.Thesightofthelarge,brightcoinpleasedhimalittle.Herememberedthathewashungryandthathecouldgetabedfortencents.Withthis,theideaofdeathpassed,forthetimebeing,outofhismind.Itwasonlywhenhecouldgetnothingbutinsultsthatdeathseemedworthwhile.

           Oneday,inthemiddleofthewinter,thesharpestspelloftheseasonsetin.Itbrokegreyandcoldinthefirstday,andonthesecondsnowed.Poorluckpursuinghim,hehadsecuredbuttencentsbynightfall,andthishehadspentforfood.

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