Спрут: Калифорнийская история
Chapter I
Neverwouldhegraspthesubjectofhisgreatpoem.To-day,thelifewascolourless.Romancewasdead.Hehadlivedtoolate.Towriteofthepastwasnotwhathedesired.Realitywaswhathelongedfor,thingsthathehadseen.Yethowtomakethiscompatiblewithromance.Herose,puttingonhishat,offeringtheoldmanacigarette.Thecentenarianacceptedwiththeairofagrandee,andextendedhishornsnuff-box.Presleyshookhishead.
“Iwasborntoolateforthat,”hedeclared,“forthat,andformanyotherthings.Adios.”
“Youaretravellingto-day,senor?”
“Alittleturnthroughthecountry,togetthekinksoutofthemuscles,”Presleyanswered.“IgoupintotheQuienSabe,intothehighcountrybeyondtheMission.”
“Ah,theQuienSaberancho.Thesheeparegrazingtherethisweek.”
Solotari,thekeeperoftherestaurant,explained:
“YoungAnnixtersoldhiswheatstubbleonthegroundtothesheepraisersoffyonder;”hemotionedeastwardtowardtheSierrafoothills.“SinceSundaytheherdhasbeendown.Veryclever,thatyoungAnnixter.Hegetsapriceforhisstubble,whichelsehewouldhavetoburn,andalsomanureshislandasthesheepmovefromplacetoplace.AtrueYankee,thatAnnixter,agoodgringo.”
Afterhismeal,Presleyoncemoremountedhisbicycle,andleavingtherestaurantandthePlazabehindhim,heldonthroughthemainstreetofthedrowsingtown—thestreetthatfartherondevelopedintotheroadwhichturnedabruptlynorthwardandledonwardthroughthehop-fieldsandtheQuienSaberanchtowardtheMissionofSanJuan.
