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

under the lining at the place where one of the seams had not been stitched.
Petya was just about to say that Uncle Fedya had done a pretty sloppy
job on the cap, but at that moment a long shrill whistle drowned out all the
sounds of the port for fully a minute. Then, abruptly, it stopped, as if it
had flown across the city and disappeared into the steppe beyond. The second
blow was a brief one, like a period at the end of la long sentence. Petya
saw the passengers going up the gangway. Gavrik clapped Petya's cap on
again, adjusted the ribbons and the two ran towards the ship.
"There's just one more thing," Gavrik said hurriedly as they raced
along, "if they discover the letter, say you found it, but the best thing,
if you have time, would be to tear it up and get rid of it, although there's
nothing very special in it. So don't be soared."
"I know, I know," Petya answered in a jumpy voice.
"Petya!" Vasily Petrovich, Pavlik and Auntie were shouting together, in
varying stages of despair, as they fussed around the Alpine rucksacks and
travelling-bag.
"You dreadful child!" Father was boiling. "You'll be the death of me!"
"Where have you been? What a thing to do! To disappear just as the
first whistle was blowing!" Auntie was saying excitedly, addressing herself
to Petya and the other passengers, who were arriving in crowds.
"We nearly left without you!" Pavlik bellowed at the top of his lungs.
A sailor picked up their things. They followed him up the gangway over
the mysterious gap between the side of the ship and the harbour wall where
far below the green water glistened dully and a small transparent jellyfish
bobbed on the surface. The captain's mate, an Italian, took their tickets,
and a Russian coastguard officer took Vasily Petrovich's passport. Petya was
positive that the officer eyed his sailor's cap with obvious suspicion.
They went down a steep ladder into the bowels of the ship, each of them
tripping over the high copper coaming, Electric lights burned dimly in the
day-time darkness of the corridors, and when walking on the coconut mats and
cork flooring they were conscious that the ship, which was still moored to
the pier, had a fairly strong list.
A middle-aged Italian stewardess unlocked the door and the sailor
dumped their bags in the small cabin. The sea was dazzlingly reflected on
the porthole side of the very low creamy-white ceiling.
While they were putting their things in the luggage nets, bumping into
one another in the process, the siren blew a second blast-a long
one-followed by two short ones.
When, at long last, after getting lost in the maze of corridors and
stumbling painfully over the high coamings, they found their way up to one
of the decks, the steam winches were no longer rattling, the long arms of
the cranes were motionless, and the only sound breaking in the sunny
stillness was the hiss of escaping steam.
Auntie and Gavrik were part of the small crowd gathered on the pier to
see the ship off. When Gavrik spotted Petya, he shook his fist at him
stealthily and winked. Petya knew exactly what he meant. He fixed his cap
casually and shouted:
"Don't forget your Latin revision!"
"I know it!" Gavrik shouted back, cupping his hands to his mouth. "Hie,
haec, hoc! How's that?"