"Г.К.Честертон. The Scandal of Father Brown " - читать интересную книгу автора

as one about to faint, and said pathetically: 'They know they can knock me
down with a feather. They know a breath will blow me away. They know my
doctor says I'm not to have these shocks. And they come and drink cold milk
in cold blood, before my very eyes.'
The Rev. David Pryce - Jones, accustomed to deal with hecklers at
public meetings, was so unwise as to venture on remonstrance and
recrimination, in this very different and much more popular atmosphere. The
Oriental total abstainer abstained from speech as well as spirits; and
certainly gained in dignity by doing so. In fact, so far as he was
concerned, the Moslem culture certainly scored a silent victory; he was
obviously so much more of a gentleman than the commercial gentlemen, that a
faint irritation began to arise against his aristocratic aloofness; and when
Mr Pryce - Jones began to refer in argument to something of the kind, the
tension became very acute indeed.
'I ask you, friends,' said Mr Pryce - Jones, with expansive platform
gestures, 'why does our friend here set an example to us Christians in truly
Christian self - control and brotherhood? Why does he stand here as a model
of true Christianity, of real refinement, of genuine gentlemanly behaviour,
amid all the quarrels and riots of such places as these? Because, whatever
the doctrinal differences between us, at least in his soil the evil plant,
the accursed hop or vine, has never - '
At this crucial moment of the controversy it was that John Raggley, the
stormy petrel of a hundred storms of controversy, red - faced, white -
haired, his antiquated top - hat on the back of his head, his stick swinging
like a club, entered the house like an invading army.
John Raggley was generally regarded as a crank. He was the sort of man
who writes letters to the newspaper, which generally do not appear in the
newspaper; but which do appear afterwards as pamphlets, printed (or
misprinted) at his own expense; and circulated to a hundred waste - paper
baskets. He had quarrelled alike with the Tory squires and the Radical
County Councils; he hated Jews; and he distrusted nearly everything that is
sold in shops, or even in hotels. But there was a backing of facts behind
his fads; he knew the county in every corner and curious detail; and he was
a sharp observer. Even the manager, a Mr Wills, had a shadowy respect for Mr
Raggley, having a nose for the sort of lunacy allowed in the gentry; not
indeed the prostrate reverence which he had for the jovial magnificence of
Mr Jukes, who was really good for trade, but a least a disposition to avoid
quarrelling with the old grumbler, partly perhaps out of fear of the old
grumbler's tongue.
'And you will have your usual, Sir,' said Mr Wills, leaning and leering
across the counter.
'It's the only decent stuff you've still got,' snorted Mr Raggley,
slapping down his queer and antiquated hat. 'Damn it, I sometimes think the
only English thing left in England is cherry brandy. Cherry brandy does
taste of cherries. Can you find me any beer that tastes of hops, or any
cider that tastes of apples, or any wine that has the remotest indication of
being made out of grapes? There's an infernal swindle going on now in every
inn in the country, that would have raised a revolution in any other
country. I've found out a thing or two about it, I can tell you. You wait
till I can get it printed, and people will sit up. If I could stop our