"Valentin Katayev. The Cottage in the Steppe (англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

accuracy in spitting through tightly-clenched teeth.
"Well, where are you working now?" Petya asked, his eyes taking in
Gavrik's strange outfit.
"In the Odessa Leaflet print-shop."
"Tell me another!"
"It's the truth!"
"What do you do there?"'
"I deliver the ad proofs to the clients."
"Proofs?" Petya said doubtfully.
"Sure, proofs. Why?"
"Oh, nothing."
"Maybe you've never seen proof-sheets? Here, I'll show you some. See?"
With these words Gavrik put his hand into the breast pocket of his
smock and pulled out a couple of packets of wet paper reeking of kerosene.
"Let me see!" Petya cried, grabbing a packet.
"Keep your paws off," Gavrik said good-naturedly, not at all in anger
or from a desire to offend Petya, but out of sheer habit.
"Come here, I'll show them to you."
The boys walked over to an iron post near the gates, and Gavrik
unrolled a damp paper covered all over with newspaper advertisements as
black and as greasy as shoe polish. Most of them were illustrated, and Petya
immediately recognized them from the pages of the Odessa Leaflet, which the
Bachei family took in. Here were the Fleetfoot Shoes and the Guide Galoshes,
waterproofs with peaked hoods sold by Lurie Bros., Faberge diamonds in open
jewel cases, with black lines radiating from them, bottles of Shustov's
rowan-berry brandy, theatre lyres, furriers' tigers, harness-makers' steeds,
the black cats of fortune-tellers and palmists, skates, carriages, toys,
suits, fur coats, pianos and balalaikas, biscuits and elaborate cream cakes,
Lloyd's ocean liners, and railway locomotives. And, finally, there were the
impressive-looking, long, uninterrupted columns of joint-stock company
reports and bank balances, showing their investments and fantastic
dividends.
Gavrik's small, strong, ink-stained hands held the damp newspaper
sheet, that magic, miniature record of the wealth of a big industrial and
trading centre, so far beyond the reach of Gavrik and the thousands of other
ordinary working people like him.
"There you are!" Gavrik said, and when he noticed that Petya seemed to
be reflecting on the nature of man's wealth, an exercise in which he himself
had often indulged when reading the ads or the signs and posters, he sighed
and added, "Proofs!" Then he gazed ruefully at his canvas shoes that were a
size too big and not the thing for the season. "How are things?"
"Not bad," Petya mumbled, lowering his eyes.
"Tell me another," Gavrik said.
"On my honour!"
"Then why did you take to serving dinners at home?"
Petya blushed crimson.
"It's true, isn't it?" Gavrik insisted.
"What if it is?" Petya said.
"It means you're hard up for money."
"We are not."