Спрут: Каліфорнійська історія

           Thoughthewheelsofthecarry-allgratedloudlyontheroadwayinfrontofthehouse,nobodycametothedoornorlookedfromthewindows.Theplaceseemedtenantless,infinitelylonely,infinitelysad.Annixtertiedtheteam,andwithHilmaapproachedthewide-opendoor,scufflingandtrampingontheporchtoattractattention.Nobodystirred.ASundaystillnesspervadedtheplace.Outside,thewitheredhop-leavesrustledlikedrypaperinthebreeze.Thequietwasominous.Theypeeredintothefrontroomfromthedoorway,Hilmaholdingherhusband’shand.Mrs.Dykewasthere.Shesatatthetableinthemiddleoftheroom,herhead,withitswhitehair,downuponherarm.Aclutterofunwasheddisheswerestrewedovertheredandwhitetablecloth.Theunkemptroom,onceamarvelofneatness,hadnotbeencleanedfordays.Newspapers,Genslinger’sextrasandcopiesofSanFranciscoandLosAngelesdailieswerescatteredallovertheroom.Onthetableitselfwerecrumpledyellowtelegrams,adozenofthem,ascoreofthem,blowingaboutinthedraughtfromthedoor.Andinthemidstofallthisdisarray,surroundedbythepublishedaccountsofherson’scrime,thetelegraphedanswerstoherpitifulappealsfortidingsflutteringaboutherhead,thehighwayman’smother,wornout,abandonedandforgotten,sleptthroughthestillnessoftheSundayafternoon.

           NeitherHilmanorAnnixtereverforgottheirinterviewwithMrs.Dykethatday.Suddenlywaking,shehadcaughtsightofAnnixter,andatonceexclaimedeagerly:

           “Isthereanynews?”

           Foralongtimeafterwardsnothingcouldbegotfromher.