Загублений світ
I was the Flail of the Lord
"Whatdoyoumeantodo,then?"Iasked.
"Well,myideawasthatyouandIcouldrushhim.Hemaybedozin’,andattheworsthecanonlywingoneofus,andtheothershouldhavehim.Ifwecangethisbolster-coverroundhisarmsandthen‘phoneupastomach-pump,we’llgivetheolddearthesupperofhislife."
Itwasaratherdesperatebusinesstocomesuddenlyintoone’sday’swork.Idon’tthinkthatIamaparticularlybraveman.IhaveanIrishimaginationwhichmakestheunknownandtheuntriedmoreterriblethantheyare.Ontheotherhand,Iwasbroughtupwithahorrorofcowardiceandwithaterrorofsuchastigma.IdaresaythatIcouldthrowmyselfoveraprecipice,liketheHuninthehistorybooks,ifmycouragetodoitwerequestioned,andyetitwouldsurelybeprideandfear,ratherthancourage,whichwouldbemyinspiration.Therefore,althougheverynerveinmybodyshrankfromthewhisky-maddenedfigurewhichIpicturedintheroomabove,Istillanswered,inascarelessavoiceasIcouldcommand,thatIwasreadytogo.SomefurtherremarkofLordRoxton’saboutthedangeronlymademeirritable.
"Talkingwon’tmakeitanybetter,"saidI."Comeon."
Irosefrommychairandhefromhis.Thenwithalittleconfidentialchuckleoflaughter,hepattedmetwoorthreetimesonthechest,finallypushingmebackintomychair.
"Allright,sonnymylad—you’lldo,"saidhe.Ilookedupinsurprise.
"IsawafterJackBallingermyselfthismornin’.Heblewaholeintheskirtofmykimono,blesshisshakyoldhand,butwegotajacketonhim,andhe’stobeallrightinaweek.Isay,youngfellah,Ihopeyoudon’tmind—what?
