"Anatoly Rybakov. The bronze bird (Бронзовая птица, англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

That indeed was exactly what he was doing.
"A station!" he commented. "Three broken-down tubs! I can't stand
show-offs! And there's nothing to show off about! They should simply have
written: 'boats for hire,' or 'landing.' That would have been modest and to
the point. But 'station'!"
"I'm sure I don't know what we're going to say to Kolya," Slava sighed.
"What's there to say? We're not to blame. And if he starts lecturing
I'm going to tell him straight, 'Look, Kolya, you've got to be objective.
Nobody's to blame. Besides, life's full of things you can never foresee.'"
And with a philosophical air he added, "Yes, life would not be worth while
living without them."
"What are you talking about?"
"Things you can't foresee."
"You've got no sense of responsibility," Slava said, scanning the road
leading from the railway station.
"'Sense,' 'responsibility'!" Genka said with a contemptuous wave of his
hand. "Beautiful words.... Everyone answers for himself. Back in Moscow I
said we shouldn't take any Young Pioneers to camp with us. I warned them,
didn't I? But nobody listened."
"It's no use talking to you," Slava replied indifferently.
For some time they sat in silence, Genka dangling his feet in the water
and Slava chewing his blade of grass.
It was baking hot in the July sun. A grasshopper was chirping
tirelessly in the grass. The river, narrow and deep and hidden in the shadow
of the shrubbery overhanging its banks, wound its way through fields, hugged
the foot of the hills, carefully skirted round the villages and disappeared
in the forest, hushed, dark and cool.
The wind brought the sounds of a rural street from a village nestling
at the foot of a mountain in the distance. The village looked like a
haphazard heap of iron, plank and thatched roofs lying amidst the greenery
of orchards. Near the stream, by the ferry, the bank was criss-crossed by a
dense network of footpaths.
Slava kept his eyes on the road. The Moscow train had probably arrived
and Kolya Sevastyanov and Misha Polyakov would be here any minute. Slava
sighed.
"Sighing?" Genka smirked. "Those ohs and ahs! How many times have I
told you...."
"There they are!" Slava rose, shading his eyes with his hand.
Genka stopped dangling his feet and climbed to the top of the bank.
"Where? Hm. It's them all right. Misha's in front. Behind him.... No,
it's not Kolya. Some chap or other. It's Korovin! 'Pon my word, it's
Korovin, remember the chap who was a waif? And he's got a sack on his
shoulders."
"Books, probably."
The boys gazed intently at the small figures moving up the narrow path
across the fields. And although they were still far away, Genka spoke in a
whisper:
"Only bear in mind, Slava, I'll do all the talking. Don't interfere or
you'll spoil everything. I'll pull it off, don't you worry. Especially as
Kolya hasn't come. What's Misha? I know how to handle him even if he is the