Lost Face Jack London (13 inch ebook reader .TXT) đ
- Author: Jack London
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He was a good looker all right. When he was in condition his muscles stood out in bunches all over him. And he was the strongest-looking brute I ever saw in Alaska, also the most intelligent-looking. To run your eyes over him, youâd think he could outpull three dogs of his own weight. Maybe he could, but I never saw it. His intelligence didnât run that way. He could steal and forage to perfection; he had an instinct that was positively gruesome for divining when work was to be done and for making a sneak accordingly; and for getting lost and not staying lost he was nothing short of inspired. But when it came to work, the way that intelligence dribbled out of him and left him a mere clot of wobbling, stupid jelly would make your heart bleed.
There are times when I think it wasnât stupidity. Maybe, like some men I know, he was too wise to work. I shouldnât wonder if he put it all over us with that intelligence of his. Maybe he figured it all out and decided that a licking now and again and no work was a whole lot better than work all the time and no licking. He was intelligent enough for such a computation. I tell you, Iâve sat and looked into that dogâs eyes till the shivers ran up and down my spine and the marrow crawled like yeast, what of the intelligence I saw shining out. I canât express myself about that intelligence. It is beyond mere words. I saw it, thatâs all. At times it was like gazing into a human soul, to look into his eyes; and what I saw there frightened me and started all sorts of ideas in my own mind of reincarnation and all the rest. I tell you I sensed something big in that bruteâs eyes; there was a message there, but I wasnât big enough myself to catch it. Whatever it was (I know Iâm making a fool of myself)â âwhatever it was, it baffled me. I canât give an inkling of what I saw in that bruteâs eyes; it wasnât light, it wasnât colour; it was something that moved, away back, when the eyes themselves werenât moving. And I guess I didnât see it move either; I only sensed that it moved. It was an expressionâ âthatâs what it wasâ âand I got an impression of it. No; it was different from a mere expression; it was more than that. I donât know what it was, but it gave me a feeling of kinship just the same. Oh, no, not sentimental kinship. It was, rather, a kinship of equality. Those eyes never pleaded like a deerâs eyes. They challenged. No, it wasnât defiance. It was just a calm assumption of equality. And I donât think it was deliberate. My belief is that it was unconscious on his part. It was there because it was there, and it couldnât help shining out. No, I donât mean shine. It didnât shine; it moved. I know Iâm talking rot, but if youâd looked into that animalâs eyes the way I have, youâd understand. Steve was affected the same way I was. Why, I tried to kill that Spot onceâ âhe was no good for anything; and I fell down on it. I led him out into the brush, and he came along slow and unwilling. He knew what was going on. I stopped in a likely place, put my foot on the rope, and pulled my big Coltâs. And that dog sat down and looked at me. I tell you he didnât plead. He just looked. And I saw all kinds of incomprehensible things moving, yes, moving, in those eyes of his. I didnât really see them move; I thought I saw them, for, as I said before, I guess I only sensed them. And I want to tell you right now that it got beyond me. It was like killing a man, a conscious, brave man, who looked calmly into your gun as much as to say, âWhoâs afraid?â
Then, too, the message seemed so near that, instead of pulling the trigger quick, I stopped to see if I could catch the message. There it was, right before me, glimmering all around in those eyes of his. And then it was too late. I got scared. I was trembly all over, and my stomach generated a nervous palpitation that made me seasick. I just sat down and looked at the dog, and he looked at me, till I thought I was going crazy. Do you want to know what I did? I threw down the gun and ran back to camp with the fear of God in my heart. Steve laughed at me. But I notice that Steve led Spot into the woods, a week later, for the same purpose, and that Steve came back alone, and a little later Spot drifted back, too.
At any rate, Spot wouldnât work. We paid a hundred and ten dollars for him from the bottom of our sack, and he wouldnât work. He wouldnât even tighten the traces. Steve spoke to him the first time we put him in harness, and he sort of shivered, that was all. Not an ounce on the traces. He just stood still and wobbled, like so much jelly. Steve touched him with the whip. He yelped, but not an ounce. Steve
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