"George R. R. Martin - Fevre Dream" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

buttons, he was a fierce and imposing figure. But York's eyes had drained
him of his bluster. The man was a fanatic, Marsh decided. He had seen
eyes like that before, in madmen and hell-raising preachers and once in the
face of the man called John Brown, down in bleeding Kansas. Marsh wanted
nothing to do with fanatics, with preachers, and abolitionists and
temperance people.

But when York spoke, he did not sound like a fanatic. "My name is Joshua
Anton York, Captain. J. A. York in business, Joshua to my friends. I hope
that we shall be both business associates and friends, in time." His tone
was cordial and reasonable.
"Well see about that," Marsh said, uncertain. The gray eyes across from him
seemed aloof and vaguely amused now; whatever he had seen in them was
gone. He felt confused.

"I trust you received my letter?"

"I got it right here," Marsh said, pulling the folded envelope from the pocket
of his coat. The offer had seemed an impossible stroke of fortune when it
arrived, salvation for everything he feared lost. Now he was not so sure.
"You want to go into the steamboat business, do you?" he said, leaning
forward.
A waiter appeared. "Will you be dining with Mister York, Cap'n?"

"Please do," York urged.

"I believe I will," Marsh said. York might be able to outstare him, but there
was no man on the river could outeat him. "I'll have some of that soup, and
a dozen oysters, and a couple of roast chickens with taters and stuff. Crisp
'em up good, mind you. And something to wash it all down with. What are
you drinking, York?"

"Burgundy."
"Fine, fetch me a bottle of the same."
York looked amused. "You have a formidable appetite, Captain."

"This is a for-mid-a-bul town," Marsh said carefully, "and a for-mid-a-bul
river, Mister York. Man's got to keep his strength up. This ain't New York,
nor London neither."
"I'm quite aware of that," York said.
"Well, I hope so, if you're going into steamboatin'. It's the for-mid-a-bullest
thing of all."

"Shall we go directly to business, then? You own a packet line. I wish to
buy a half-interest. Since you are here, I take it you are interested in my
offer."

"I'm considerable interested," Marsh agreed, "and considerable puzzled,
too. You look like a smart man. I reckon you checked me out before you
wrote me this here letter." He tapped it with his finger. "You ought to know