"Вуди Гасри. Bound for glory (engl)" - читать интересную книгу автора

track. "She's slowin' down ta make a switch."
"I been lookin' fer you, mister music maker!" I heard somebody talking
behind me. I felt a knee poking me in my back, each time hard enough to
scoot me a little more out the door. "So уa thought I'd forgot about da
bottla gas, huh? I t'ink I'll jist boot yez offa dis train!"
I tried to hold onto the colored boy's arm. "Watch out there, ya silly
dam fool! What're уa tryin' ta do? Kick me out? I'll git up from here an'
frail yore knob! Don't ya kick me again!"
He put his foot flat up against my shoulder blade and kicked me out the
door. I swung onto the Negro's arms with both hands, and the leather strap
of my guitar slipped out of my hold. I was holding both feet clear of the
cinders down on the ground. When my guitar fell, I had to turn loose with
one hand and grab it by the handle. The Negro had to hold onto the side of
the door to hold his own self in the car. I seen him bend backwards as far
as he could and lay down flat on the floor. This pulled me up within an inch
or so of the edge of the door again, and I was about to get one arm inside.
I knew he could pull me back in if I could make it that far. I looked down
at the ground going past under me. The train was slowing down. The Negro and
me made one more hard pull together to swing me back inside the door.
"Ноl' on! Boy!" he was grunting.
"No ya don't!" The young fellow bent down into a squatting position,
heaving at the Negro's shoulders with both hands. "I'll jist kick da pair of
yez out!"
The colored man yelled and screamed, "Hhhaaaayyy! Hheeelllpp!"
"Goddam it, donnn't!" I was about to lose all of my strength in the
left arm locked around the Negro's, which was the only thing between me and
the six-by-three grave.
"Dis is where da both of yez hits de cinders! Good-bye! An' go ta
hell!" He stuck his tongue out between his teeth and throwed every ounce of
his weight against the colored man's shoulders.
Slowing down, the train jammed its air brakes and jarred every man in
the boxcar off his feet. Men stumbled against each other, missed their
licks, clawing and swinging their fists through the air. Two dozen hit the
floor and knocked hide and hair and all off each other's heads. Blood flew
and spattered everybody. Splinters dug into hands and faces of men tromped
on the floor. Guys dove on their faces on top of strangers and grabbed
handfuls of loose skin in their fingernails, and twisted until the blood
caked into the dust. They rolled across the floor and busted their heads
against the walls, knocked blind by the jar, with lungs and eyes and ears
and teeth full of the cement. They stepped on the sick ones, ruptured the
brave ones, walked on top of each other with loggers' and railroaders' spike
shoes. I felt myself falling out of the Negro's hand hold.
Another tap on the brakes jerked a kink in the train and knocked the
boy loose from his hold on the Negro's shoulders. The jar sent him jumping
like a frog from where he was squatting, over me and the Negro both, and
over the slope of the steep cinder grading, rolling, knocking and plowing
cinders twenty feet to each side till like a wild, rolling truck tire he
chugged into the water of the lake.
I pulled the Negro friend over the edge with me and both of us lit
running with our feet on the cinders. I stumbled and took a little spill,