Спрут: Каліфорнійська історія

           ItwasPresley,whorangupfromLosMuertos.HehadheardfromHarranthatAnnixterwas,perhaps,comingoverthatevening.Ifhecame,wouldhemindbringingoverhis—Presley’s—bicycle.HehadleftitattheQuienSaberanchthedaybeforeandhadforgottentocomebackthatwayforit.

           “Well,”objectedAnnixter,asurlynoteinhisvoice,“IWASgoingtoRIDEover.”“Oh,nevermind,then,”returnedPresleyeasily.“Iwastoblameforforgettingit.Don’tbotheraboutit.I’llcomeoversomeofthesedaysandgetitmyself.”

           Annixterhungupthetransmitterwithavehementwrenchandstampedoutoftheroom,bangingthedoor.Hefoundhisrubbercoathanginginthehallwayandswungintoitwithafiercemovementoftheshouldersthatallbutstartedtheseams.Everythingseemedtoconspiretothwarthim.Itwasjustlikethatabsent-minded,crazypoet,Presley,toforgethiswheel.Well,hecouldcomeafterithimself.He,Annixter,wouldrideSOMEhorse,anyhow.WhenhecameoutupontheporchhesawthewheelleaningagainstthefencewherePresleyhadleftit.Ifitstayedtheremuchlongertherainwouldcatchit.Annixterrippedoutanoath.Ateverymomenthisill-humourwasincreasing.Yet,forallthat,hewentbacktothestable,pushingthebicyclebeforehim,andcountermandedhisorder,directingthestablemantogetthebuggyready.HehimselfcarefullystowedPresley’sbicycleundertheseat,coveringitwithacoupleofemptysacksandatarpaulincarriagecover.