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

livin', breathin' stretch of concrete highway!"
"Close as we is jammed an' packed in heah, we'z all gonna be stuck 'n'
cemented together time we git outta dis hot box."
"Boys," the old man told both of us, "I hope we don't have no trouble
while I'm in here. If somebody was ta fall on me or push me around, this
rupture, I know, it would kill me."
"I'll he'p see to it dat nobody don't push nobody on toppa you,
mistah."
"I'll break 'em of th' habit," I told both of them.
"What time of day is it? Must be fightin' time?" I looked around at the
two.
"Mus' be 'roun' about two or three o'clock," the Negro boy told me,
"jedgin' from that sun shinin' in th' door. Say! What's them two boys doin'
yondah?" He craned his neck.
"Pourin` somethin' out of a bottle," I said, "right by that old colored
man's feet. What is it?"
"Wettin` th' cement dust wid it. Strikin` a match now."
"Gasoline!"
"Ol` man's 'sleep. They's givin' 'im de hot foot!"
The flame rose up and burned in a little spot about the size of a
silver dollar. In a few seconds the old man clawed at the strings of his
bundle where he was resting his head. He kicked his feet in the dust and
knocked little balls of fire onto two or three other men playing some poker
along the back wall. They fought the fire off their clothes and laughed and
bawled the kids and the old man both out.
"Hey! You old bastard! Quit bustin' up our card game!"
I saw one of the men draw back to hit the old man. Another player was
grinning and laughing out to the whole crowd, "That wuz th' funniest dam
sight I ever seen!"
The two boys, both dressed in overhauls, walked back through the crowd,
one holding out the half-pint bottle. ''Drinka likker, men? Who wantsa
drinka good likker?" The boy with the bottle shoved it up under my nose
saying, "Here, mister music man! Take a little snort! Then play somethin'
good an' hot!"
"I been a needin' a little drink ta ease me on down ta Chicago." I
wiped my hand across my face and smiled around at everybody. "I shore thank
ya fer thinkin' 'bout me." I took the bottle and smelled of the gasoline.
Then I sailed the bottle over a dozen men's heads and out of the door.
"Say, stud! Who daya t'ink youse are? Dat bottle was mine, see?" He was
a boy about twenty-five, wearing a flop hat soaked through with some kind of
dime-store hair oil. He braced his self on his feet in front of me and said
again, "Dat bottle was mine!"
"Go git it." I looked him straight in the eye.
"Whattaya tryin' ta pull?"
"Well, since yer so interested, I'll jest tell ya. See, I might wanta
lay down after while an' git a little sleep. I don't wanta wake up with my
feet blistered. 'Cause then, dam yer hide, I'd hafta throw ya outta this
door!"
"We was gonna use dat gas ta start a fire ta cook wid."
"Ya mean ta git us all in jail with."