Lost Face Jack London (13 inch ebook reader .TXT) đ
- Author: Jack London
Book online «Lost Face Jack London (13 inch ebook reader .TXT) đ». Author Jack London
âGood business man, Curly,â OâBrien was saying. âMust say like your styleâ âfine anâ generous, freehanded hospitalâ ââ ⊠hospitalâ ââ ⊠hospitality. Credit to you. Nothinâ base ân graspinâ in your makeup. As I was sayinââ ââ
But just then the faro dealer slammed the door.
The three laughed happily on the stoop. They laughed for a long time. Then Mucluc Charley essayed speech.
âFunnyâ âlaughed so hardâ âainât what I want to say. My idea isâ ââ ⊠what wash it? Oh, got it! Funny how ideas slip. Elusive ideaâ âchasinâ elusive ideaâ âgreat sport. Ever chase rabbits, Percy, my frienâ? I had dogâ âgreat rabbit dog. Whash âis name? Donât know nameâ ânever had no nameâ âforget nameâ âelusive nameâ âchasinâ elusive nameâ âno, ideaâ âelusive idea, but got itâ âwhat I want to say wasâ âO hell!â
Thereafter there was silence for a long time. OâBrien slipped from their arms to a sitting posture on the stoop, where he slept gently. Mucluc Charley chased the elusive idea through all the nooks and crannies of his drowning consciousness. Leclaire hung fascinated upon the delayed utterance. Suddenly the otherâs hand smote him on the back.
âGot it!â Mucluc Charley cried in stentorian tones.
The shock of the jolt broke the continuity of Leclaireâs mental process.
âHow much to the pan?â he demanded.
âPan nothinâ!â Mucluc Charley was angry. âIdeaâ âgot itâ âgot leg-holdâ âran it down.â
Leclaireâs face took on a rapt, admiring expression, and again he hung upon the otherâs lips.
â⊠O hell!â said Mucluc Charley.
At this moment the kitchen door opened for an instant, and Curly Jim shouted, âGo home!â
âFunny,â said Mucluc Charley. âShame ideaâ âvery shame as mine. Leâs go home.â
They gathered OâBrien up between them and started. Mucluc Charley began aloud the pursuit of another idea. Leclaire followed the pursuit with enthusiasm. But OâBrien did not follow it. He neither heard, nor saw, nor knew anything. He was a mere wobbling automaton, supported affectionately and precariously by his two business associates.
They took the path down by the bank of the Yukon. Home did not lie that way, but the elusive idea did. Mucluc Charley giggled over the idea that he could not catch for the edification of Leclaire. They came to where Siskiyou Pearlyâs boat lay moored to the bank. The rope with which it was tied ran across the path to a pine stump. They tripped over it and went down, OâBrien underneath. A faint flash of consciousness lighted his brain. He felt the impact of bodies upon his and struck out madly for a moment with his fists. Then he went to sleep again. His gentle snore arose on the air, and Mucluc Charley began to giggle.
âNew idea,â he volunteered, âbrand new idea. Jesâ caught itâ âno trouble at all. Came right up anâ I patted it on the head. Itâs mine. âBrienâs drunkâ âbeashly drunk. Shameâ âdamn shameâ âlearnâm lesshon. Trash Pearlyâs boat. Put âBrien in Pearlyâs boat. Casht offâ âlet her go down Yukon. âBrien wake up in morninâ. Current too strongâ âcanât row boat âgainst currentâ âmush walk back. Come back madder ân hatter. You anâ me headinâ for tall timber. Learn âm lesshon jesâ shame, learn âm lesshon.â
Siskiyou Pearlyâs boat was empty, save for a pair of oars. Its gunwale rubbed against the bank alongside of OâBrien. They rolled him over into it. Mucluc Charley cast off the painter, and Leclaire shoved the boat out into the current. Then, exhausted by their labours, they lay down on the bank and slept.
Next morning all Red Cow knew of the joke that had been played on Marcus OâBrien. There were some tall bets as to what would happen to the two perpetrators when the victim arrived back. In the afternoon a lookout was set, so that they would know when he was sighted. Everybody wanted to see him come in. But he didnât come, though they sat up till midnight. Nor did he come next day, nor the next. Red Cow never saw Marcus OâBrien again, and though many conjectures were entertained, no certain clue was ever gained to dispel the mystery of his passing.
Only Marcus OâBrien knew, and he never came back to tell. He awoke next morning in torment. His stomach had been calcined by the inordinate quantity of whisky he had drunk, and was a dry and raging furnace. His head ached all over, inside and out; and, worse than that, was the pain in his face. For six hours countless thousands of mosquitoes had fed upon him, and their ungrateful poison had swollen his face tremendously. It was only by a severe exertion of will that he was able to open narrow slits in his face through which he could peer. He happened to move his hands, and they hurt. He squinted at them, but failed to recognize them, so puffed were they by the mosquito virus. He was lost, or rather, his identity was lost to him. There was nothing familiar about him, which, by association of ideas, would cause to rise in his consciousness the continuity of his existence. He was divorced utterly from his past, for there was nothing about him to resurrect in his consciousness a memory of that past. Besides, he was so sick and miserable that he lacked energy and inclination to seek after who and what he was.
It was not until he discovered a crook in a little finger, caused by an unset breakage of years before, that he knew himself to be Marcus OâBrien. On the instant his past rushed into his consciousness. When he discovered a blood-blister under a thumbnail, which he had received the previous week, his self-identification became doubly sure, and he knew that those unfamiliar hands belonged to Marcus OâBrien, or, just as much to the point, that Marcus OâBrien belonged to the hands. His first thought was that he was illâ âthat he had had river fever. It hurt him so much to open his eyes that he kept them closed. A
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