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

be. Look at that gone leg. Withered away! You're too dam low down an'
sneakin' to make an honest livin' by hard work. Sonofabitch. So you go into
a saloon where th' workin' stiffs hang out, an' you put down your kitty box
an' play for your dam tips!"
I told him, "Go jump in one of these lakes!"
"I'm settin' right there!" He pointed at my guitar in my lap. "Right,
by God, on top of you!"
I grabbed my guitar and rolled over three or four other fellows' feet
and got out of Whitey's way just as he turned around and piled down
backwards yelling and screaming at the top of his lungs. I stumbled through
the car trying to keep my balance and hold onto my guitar. I fell up against
an old man slumped with his face rubbing up against the wall. I heard him
groan and say, "This is th' roughest bastardly boxcar that I ever swung
into."
"Why doncha lay down?" I had to lean up against the wall to keep from
falling. "How come ya standin' up this a way?"
"Rupture. It rides a little easier standin' up."
Five or six guys dressed like timberjacks brushed past us cussing and
raving. "I can't stand this dust no longer!" "Out of our way, men!" "Let us
by! We want to get to the other end of the car!"
"You birds won't be no better off in th' other end!" I hollered at
them. The dust stung the roof of my mouth. "I tried it!"
A big husky gent with high boots and red wool socks rolled back on a
pair of logger's britches stopped and looked' me over and asked me, "Who in
the hell are you? Don't you think I know how to ride a boxcar, sonny? I'm
gettin' out of this wind!"
"Go ahead on, mister, but I'm tellin' ya, ya'll burn up back in that
other end!" I turned again to the old man and asked him, "Anything I can do
ta help ya?"
"Guess not, son." I could see by the look on his face that the rupture
was tying him up in knots. "I was hopin' ta ride this freight on in home
tonight. Chicago. Plumber there. But looks like I'll have ta get off at the
next stop an' hit the highway."
"Purty bad. Well, it ain't a dam bit lonesome in here, is it?"
"I counted sixty-nine men in this car." He squinted his eyes and
gritted his teeth and doubled over a little farther. "Might be, I counted
wrong. Missed some of th' ones layin' down or counted some of them twice.
Pretty close ta sixty-nine though."
"Jest like a car load of sheep headed fer th' packin` house." I let my
knees bend in the joints a little bit to keep the car from shaking me to
jelly.
A long tall Negro boy walked up and asked us, "You men know what's
makin' our noses burn?" He was wearing a pair of work shoes that looked like
they had seen Civil War service. "Eyes, too?"
"What?" I asked him.
"Cement dust. This heah cah wuz loaded down wid sack cement!"
"Shore 'nuff?"
"I bet I done sucked in three sacks of th' damn stuff!" He screwed his
face up and mopped across his lips with his hands.
"I've breathed in more'n that! Hell, friend! You're talkin' to a