Lost Face Jack London (13 inch ebook reader .TXT) đ
- Author: Jack London
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âOstrich farm,â Mucluc Charley volunteered.
âSure, just what Iâm goinâ to start.â OâBrien abruptly steadied himself and looked with awe at Mucluc Charley. âHow did you know? Never said so. Jesâ thought I said so. Youâre a minâ reader, Charley. Leâs have another.â
Curly Jim filled the glasses and had the pleasure of seeing four dollarsâ worth of whisky disappear, one dollarâs worth of which he punished himselfâ âOâBrien insisted that he should drink as frequently as his guests.
âBetter take the money now,â Leclaire argued. âTake you two years to dig it out the hole, anâ all that time you might be hatchinâ teeny little baby ostriches anâ pulling feathers out the big ones.â
OâBrien considered the proposition and nodded approval. Curly Jim looked gratefully at Leclaire and refilled the glasses.
âHold on there!â spluttered Mucluc Charley, whose tongue was beginning to wag loosely and trip over itself. âAs your father confessorâ âthere I goâ âas your brotherâ âO hell!â He paused and collected himself for another start. âAs your frienââ âbusiness frienâ, I should say, I would suggest, ratherâ âI would take the liberty, as it was, to mentionâ âI mean, suggest, that there may be more ostrichesâ ââ ⊠O hell!â He downed another glass, and went on more carefully. âWhat Iâm drivinâ at isâ ââ ⊠what am I drivinâ at?â He smote the side of his head sharply half a dozen times with the heel of his palm to shake up his ideas. âI got it!â he cried jubilantly. âSupposen thereâs slathers moreân ten thousand dollars in that hole!â
OâBrien, who apparently was all ready to close the bargain, switched about.
âGreat!â he cried. âSplenâd idea. Never thought of it all by myself.â He took Mucluc Charley warmly by the hand. âGood frienâ! Good âsâciate!â He turned belligerently on Curly Jim. âMaybe hundred thousand dollars in that hole. You wouldnât rob your old frienâ, would you, Curly? Course you wouldnât. I know youâ âbetterân yourself, betterân yourself. Leâs have another: Weâre good frienâs, all of us, I say, all of us.â
And so it went, and so went the whisky, and so went Curly Jimâs hopes up and down. Now Leclaire argued in favour of immediate sale, and almost won the reluctant OâBrien over, only to lose him to the more brilliant counterargument of Mucluc Charley. And again, it was Mucluc Charley who presented convincing reasons for the sale and Percy Leclaire who held stubbornly back. A little later it was OâBrien himself who insisted on selling, while both friends, with tears and curses, strove to dissuade him. The more whiskey they downed, the more fertile of imagination they became. For one sober pro or con they found a score of drunken ones; and they convinced one another so readily that they were perpetually changing sides in the argument.
The time came when both Mucluc Charley and Leclaire were firmly set upon the sale, and they gleefully obliterated OâBrienâs objections as fast as he entered them. OâBrien grew desperate. He exhausted his last argument and sat speechless. He looked pleadingly at the friends who had deserted him. He kicked Mucluc Charleyâs shins under the table, but that graceless hero immediately unfolded a new and most logical reason for the sale. Curly Jim got pen and ink and paper and wrote out the bill of sale. OâBrien sat with pen poised in hand.
âLeâs have one more,â he pleaded. âOne more before I sign away a hundred thousanâ dollars.â
Curly Jim filled the glasses triumphantly. OâBrien downed his drink and bent forward with wobbling pen to affix his signature. Before he had made more than a blot, he suddenly started up, impelled by the impact of an idea colliding with his consciousness. He stood upon his feet and swayed back and forth before them, reflecting in his startled eyes the thought process that was taking place behind. Then he reached his conclusion. A benevolent radiance suffused his countenance. He turned to the faro dealer, took his hand, and spoke solemnly.
âCurly, youâre my frienâ. Thereâs my hanâ. Shake. Olâ man, I wonât do it. Wonât sell. Wonât rob a frienâ. No son-of-a-gun will ever have chance to say Marcus OâBrien robbed frienâ cause frienâ was drunk. Youâre drunk, Curly, anâ I wonât rob you. Jesâ had thoughtâ ânever thought it beforeâ âdonât know what the matter âith me, but never thought it before. Suppose, jesâ suppose, Curly, my olâ frienâ, jesâ suppose there ainât ten thousanâ in whole damn claim. Youâd be robbed. No, sir; wonât do it. Marcus OâBrien makes money out of the grounâ, not out of his frienâs.â
Percy Leclaire and Mucluc Charley drowned the faro dealerâs objections in applause for so noble a sentiment. They fell upon OâBrien from either side, their arms lovingly about his neck, their mouths so full of words they could not hear Curlyâs offer to insert a clause in the document to the effect that if there werenât ten thousand in the claim he would be given back the difference between yield and purchase price. The longer they talked the more maudlin and the more noble the discussion became. All sordid motives were banished. They were a trio of philanthropists striving to save Curly Jim from himself and his own philanthropy. They insisted that he was a philanthropist. They refused to accept for a moment that there could be found one ignoble thought in all the world. They crawled and climbed and scrambled over high ethical plateaus and ranges, or drowned themselves in metaphysical seas of sentimentality.
Curly Jim sweated and fumed and poured out the whisky. He found himself with a score of arguments on his hands, not one of which had anything to do with the goldmine he wanted to buy. The longer they talked the farther away they got from that goldmine, and at two in the morning Curly Jim acknowledged
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