JACK LONDON: All 22 Novels in One Illustrated Edition. Джек Лондон

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ

      Corliss kicked him up, whimpering, and forced him to go on in advance. The canoe was an affair of little weight, but its bulk, on the steep rises and sharp turns, taxed their strength. The sun burned down upon them. Its white glare hurt their eyes, the sweat oozed out from every pore, and they panted for breath.

      "Oh, Vance, do you know . . ."

      "What?" He swept the perspiration from his forehead and flung it from him with a quick flirt of the hand.

      "I wish I had eaten more breakfast."

      He grunted sympathetically. They had reached the midmost ridge and could see the open river, and beyond, quite clearly, the man and his signal of distress. Below, pastoral in its green quiet, lay Split-up Island. They looked up to the broad bend of the Yukon, smiling lazily, as though it were not capable at any moment of spewing forth a flood of death. At their feet the ice sloped down into a miniature gorge, across which the sun cast a broad shadow.

      "Go on, Tommy," Frona bade. "We're half-way over, and there's water down there."

      "It's water ye'd be thinkin' on, is it?" he snarled, "and you a-leadin' a buddie to his death!"

      "I fear you have done some great sin, Tommy," she said, with a reproving shake of the head, "or else you would not be so afraid of death." She sighed and picked up her end of the canoe. "Well, I suppose it is natural. You do not know how to die--"

      "No more do I want to die," he broke in fiercely.

      "But there come times for all men to die,--times when to die is the only thing to do. Perhaps this is such a time."

      Tommy slid carefully over a glistening ledge and dropped his height to a broad foothold. "It's a' vera guid," he grinned up; "but dinna ye think a've suffeecient discreemeenation to judge for mysel'? Why should I no sing my ain sang?"

      "Because you do not know how. The strong have ever pitched the key for such as you. It is they that have taught your kind when and how to die, and led you to die, and lashed you to die."

      "Ye pit it fair," he rejoined. "And ye do it weel. It doesna behoove me to complain, sic a michty fine job ye're makin' on it."

      "You are doing well," Corliss chuckled, as Tommy dropped out of sight and landed into the bed of the gorge. "The cantankerous brute! he'd argue on the trail to Judgment."

      "Where did you learn to paddle?" she asked.

      "College--exercise," he answered, shortly. "But isn't that fine? Look!"

      The melting ice had formed a pool in the bottom of the gorge. Frona stretched out full length, and dipped her hot mouth in its coolness. And lying as she did, the soles of her dilapidated moccasins, or rather the soles of her feet (for moccasins and stockings had gone in shreds), were turned upward. They were very white, and from contact with the ice were bruised and cut. Here and there the blood oozed out, and from one of the toes it streamed steadily.

      "So wee, and pretty, and salt-like," Tommy gibed. "One wouldna think they could lead a strong man to hell."

      "By the way you grumble, they're leading you fast enough," Corliss answered angrily.

      "Forty mile an hour," Tommy retorted, as he walked away, gloating over having the last word.

      "One moment. You've two shirts. Lend me one."

      The Scotsman's face lighted inquisitively, till he comprehended. Then he shook his head and started on again.

      Frona scrambled to her feet. "What's the matter?"

      "Nothing. Sit down."

      "But what is the matter?"

      Corliss put his hands on her shoulders and pressed her back. "Your feet. You can't go on in such shape. They're in ribbons. See!" He brushed the sole of one of them and held up a blood-dripping palm. "Why didn't you tell me?"

      "Oh, they didn't bother--much."

      "Give me one of your skirts," he demanded.

      "I . . ." She faltered. "I only have one."

      He looked about him. Tommy had disappeared among the ice-floes.

      "We must be getting on," Frona said, attempting to rise.

      But he held her back. "Not another step till I fix you. Here goes, so shut your eyes."

      She obeyed, and when she opened them he was naked to the waist, and his undershirt, torn in strips, was being bound about her feet.

      "You were in the rear, and I did not know--"

      "Don't apologize, pray," she interrupted. "I could have spoken."

      "I'm not; I'm reproaching you. Now, the other one. Put it up!"

      The nearness to her bred a madness, and he touched his lips lightly to the same white little toe that had won the Baron Courbertin a kiss.

      Though she did not draw back, her face flushed, and she thrilled as she had thrilled once before in her life. "You take advantage of your own goodness," she rebuked him.

      "Then I will doubly advantage myself."

      "Please don't," she begged.

      "And why not? It is a custom of the sea to broach the spirits as the ship prepares to sink. And since this is a sort of a forlorn hope, you know, why not?"

      "But . . ."

      "But what, Miss Prim?"

      "Oh! Of all things, you know I do not deserve that! If there were nobody else to be considered, why, under the circumstances . . ."

      He drew the last knot tight and dropped her foot. "Damn St. Vincent, anyway! Come on!"

      "So would I, were I you," she laughed, taking up her end of the canoe. "But how you have changed, Vance. You are not the same man I met on the Dyea Trail. You hadn't learned to swear, then, among other things."

      "No, I'm not the same; for which I thank God and you. Only I think I am honester than you. I always live up to my philosophy."

      "Now confess that's unfair. You ask too much under the circumstances--"

      "Only a little toe."

      "Or else, I suppose, you just care for me in a kind, big-brotherly way. In which case, if you really wish it, you may--"

      "Do keep quiet," he broke in, roughly, "or I'll be making a gorgeous fool of myself."

      "Kiss all my toes," she finished.

      He grunted, but did not deign a reply. The work quickly took their breath, and they went on in silence till they descended the last steep to where McPherson waited by the open river.

      "Del hates St. Vincent," she said boldly. "Why?"

      "Yes, it seems that way." He glanced back at her curiously. "And wherever he goes, Del lugs an old Russian book, which he can't read but which he nevertheless regards, in some sort СКАЧАТЬ