"Эрнест Хемингуэй. Big two-hearted river" - читать интересную книгу автора

dipped the coffee pot half full, put some more chips under the grill onto
the fire and put the pot on. He could not remember which way he made coffee.
He could remember an argument about it with Hopkins, but not which side he
had taken. He dedded to bring it to a boil. He remembered now that was
Hopkins's way. He had once argued about everything with Hopkins. While he
waited for the coffee to boil, he opened a small can of apricots. He liked
to open cans. He emptied the can of apricots out into a tin cup. While he
watched the coffee on the fire, he drank the juice syrup of the apricots,
carefully at first to keep from spilling, then meditatively, sucking the
apricots down. They were better than fresh apricots.
The coffee boiled as he watched. The lid came up and coffee and grounds
ran down the side of the pot. Nick took it off the grill. It was a triumph
for Hopkins. He put sugar in the empty apricot cup and poured some of the
coffee out to cool. It was too hot to pour and he used his hat to hold the
handle of the coffee pot. He would not let it steep in the pot at all. Not
the first cup. It should be straight Hopkins all the way. Hop deserved that.
He was a very serious coffee drinker. He was the most serious man Nick
had ever known. Not heavy, serious. That was a long time ago. Hopkins spoke
without moving his lips. He had played polo. He made millions of dollars in
Texas. He had borrowed carfare to go to Chicago, when the wire came that his
first big well had come in. He could have wired for money. That would have
been too slow. They called Hop's girl the Blonde Venus. Hop did not mind
because she was not his real girl. Hopkins said very confidently that none
of them would make fun of his real girl. He was right. Hopkins went away
when the telegram came. That was on the Black River. It took eight days for
the telegram to reach him. Hopkins gave away his. 22 caliber Colt automatic
pistol to Nick. He gave his camera to Bill. It was to remember him always
by. They were all going fishing again next summer. The Hop Head was rich. He
would get a yacht and they would all cruise along the north shore of Lake
Superior. He was excited but serious. They said good-bye and all felt bad.
It broke up the trip. They never saw Hopkins again. That was a long time ago
on the Black River.
Nick drank the coffee, the coffee according to Hopkins. The coffee was
bitter. Nick laughed. It made a good ending to the story. His mind was
starting to work. He knew he could choke it because he was tired enough. He
spilled the coffee out of the pot and shook the grounds loose into the fire.
He lit a cigarette and went inside the tent. He took off his shoes and
trousers, sitting on the blankets, rolled the shoes up inside the trousers
for a pillow and got in between the blankets.
Out through the front of the tent he watched the glow of the fire, when
the night wind blew on it. It was a quiet night. The swamp was perfectly
quiet. Nick stretched under the blanket comfortably. A mosquito hummed close
to his ear. Nick sat up and lit a match. The mosquito was on the canvas,
over his head. Nick moved the match quickly up to it. The mosquito made a
satisfactory hiss in the flame. The match went out. Nick lay down again
under the blanket. He turned on his side and shut his eyes. He was sleepy.
He felt sleep coming. He curled up under the blanket and went to sleep.