Поклик предків
For the Love of a Man
Thesledswayedandtrembled,half-startedforward. Oneofhisfeetslipped,andonemangroanedaloud. Thenthesledlurchedaheadinwhatappearedarapidsuccessionofjerks,thoughitneverreallycametoadeadstopagain...halfaninch...aninch...twoinches... Thejerksperceptiblydiminished;asthesledgainedmomentum,hecaughtthemup,tillitwasmovingsteadilyalong.
Mengaspedandbegantobreatheagain,unawarethatforamomenttheyhadceasedtobreathe. Thorntonwasrunningbehind,encouragingBuckwithshort,cheerywords. Thedistancehadbeenmeasuredoff,andashenearedthepileoffirewoodwhichmarkedtheendofthehundredyards,acheerbegantogrowandgrow,whichburstintoaroarashepassedthefirewoodandhaltedatcommand. Everymanwastearinghimselfloose,evenMatthewson. Hatsandmittenswereflyingintheair. Menwereshakinghands,itdidnotmatterwithwhom,andbubblingoverinageneralincoherentbabel.
ButThorntonfellonhiskneesbesideBuck. Headwasagainsthead,andhewasshakinghimbackandforth. ThosewhohurriedupheardhimcursingBuck,andhecursedhimlongandfervently,andsoftlyandlovingly.
"Gad,sir!Gad,sir!"splutteredtheSkookumBenchking. "I’llgiveyouathousandforhim,sir,athousand,sir—twelvehundred,sir."
Thorntonrosetohisfeet. Hiseyeswerewet. Thetearswerestreamingfranklydownhischeeks. "Sir,"hesaidtotheSkookumBenchking,"no,sir.Youcangotohell,sir. It’sthebestIcandoforyou,sir."
