Веснянки
Chapter I
WhenMcLeanturnedfromhisfinishedreport,hefacedayoungman,yetundertwenty,tall,spare,heavilyframed,closelyfreckled,andred-haired,withahomelyIrishface,butinthesteadygrayeyes,straightlymeetinghissearchingonesofblue,therewasunswervingcandorandtheappearanceoflongingnottobeignored.Hewasdressedintheroughestoffarmclothing,andseemedtiredtothepointoffalling.
“Youarelookingforwork?”questionedMcLean.
“Yis,”answeredFreckles.
“Iamverysorry,”saidtheBosswithgenuinesympathyinhiseverytone,“butthereisonlyonemanIwantatpresent—ahardy,bigfellowwithastoutheartandastrongbody.Ihopedthatyouwoulddo,butIamafraidyouaretooyoungandscarcelystrongenough.”
Frecklesstood,hatinhand,watchingMcLean.
“AndwhatwasityouthoughtImightbedoing?”heasked.
TheBosscouldscarcelyrepressastart.SomewherebeforeaccidentandpovertytherehadbeenanancestorwhousedcultivatedEnglish,evenwithanaccent.TheboyspokeinamellowIrishvoice,sweetandpure.Itwasscarcelydefiniteenoughtobecalledbrogue,yettherewasatrickintheturningofthesentence,thewrongsoundofaletterhereandthere,thatwasalmostirresistibletoMcLean,andpresagedamisuseofinfinitivesandpossessiveswithwhichhewasveryfamiliarandwhichtouchedhimnearly.Hewasofforeignbirth,anddespiteyearsofalienation,intimesofstrongfeelinghecommittedinheritedsinsofaccentandconstruction.
“It’snochild’sjob,”answeredMcLean.“Iamthefieldmanagerofabiglumbercompany.
