Спрут: Каліфорнійська історія

           Thentheartistinhimreasserteditself.Hebecamemoreinterestedinhispoem,assuch,thaninthecausethathadinspiredit.Hewentoveritagain,retouchingitcarefully,changingawordhereandthere,andimprovingitsrhythm.Forthemoment,heforgotthePeople,forgothisrage,hisagitationoftheprevioushour,herememberedonlythathehadwrittenagreatpoem.

           Thendoubtintruded.Afterall,wasitsogreat?Didnotitssublimityoverpassalittletheboundsoftheridiculous?Hadheseentrue?Hadhefailedagain?Here-readthepoemcarefully;anditseemedallatoncetoloseforce.

           Bynow,Presleycouldnottellwhetherwhathehadwrittenwastruepoetryordoggerel.Hedistrustedprofoundlyhisownjudgment.Hemusthavetheopinionofsomeoneelse,someonecompetenttojudge.Hecouldnotwait;to-morrowwouldnotdo.Hemustknowtoacertaintybeforehecouldrestthatnight.

           Hemadeacarefulcopyofwhathehadwritten,andputtingonhishatandlacedboots,wentdownstairsandoutuponthelawn,crossingovertothestables.HefoundPhelpsthere,washingdownthebuckboard.

           “DoyouknowwhereVanameeisto-day?”heaskedthelatter.Phelpsputhischinintheair.

           “Askmesomethingeasy,”heresponded.“HemightbeatGuadalajara,orhemightbeupatOsterman’s,orhemightbeahundredmilesawayfromeitherplace.Iknowwhereheoughttobe,Mr.Presley,butthatain’tsayingwherethecrazygesabeis.HeOUGHTtoberange-ridingovereastofFour,attheheadwatersofMissionCreek.”

           “I’lltryforhimthere,atallevents,”answeredPresley.