Спрут: Каліфорнійська історія
Chapter I
Itwasallbutfinishedandread,“S.Behrman,RealEstate,Mortgages,MainStreet,Bonneville,OppositethePostOffice.”Onthehorse-troughthatstoodintheshadowofthetankwasanotherfreshlypaintedinscription:“S.BehrmanHasSomethingToSayToYou.”
AsPresleystraightenedupafterdrinkingfromthefaucetatoneendofthehorse-trough,thewatering-cartitselflabouredintoviewaroundtheturnoftheLowerRoad.Twomulesandtwohorses,whitewithdust,strainedleisurelyinthetraces,movingatasnail’space,theirlimpearsmarkingthetime;whileperchedhighupontheseat,underayellowcottonwagonumbrella,PresleyrecognisedHooven,oneofDerrick’stenants,aGerman,whomeveryonecalled“Bismarck,”anexcitablelittlemanwithaperpetualgrievanceandanendlessflowofbrokenEnglish.
“Hello,Bismarck,”saidPresley,asHoovenbroughthisteamtoastandstillbythetank,preparatorytorefilling.
“YoostdermenIlookfor,Mist’rPraicely,”criedtheother,twistingthereinsaroundthebrake.“Yoostoneminute,youwait,hey?Iwantatalkmityou.”
Presleywasimpatienttobeonhiswayagain.Alittlemoretimewasted,andthedaywouldbelost.Hehadnothingtodowiththemanagementoftheranch,andifHoovenwantedanyadvicefromhim,itwassomuchbreathwasted.Theseuncouthbrutesoffarmhandsandpettyranchers,grimedwiththesoiltheyworkedupon,wereodioustohimbeyondwords.
