The Road. Аудирование на 50000+ английских слов с текстовым сопровождением

He arose suddenly to his feet. He was a large man. I was a stranger in a strange land, and John Law was looking for me. I went away hurriedly.

«But why ungrateful?» I asked myself as I slammed his gate. «What in the dickens did he give me to be ungrateful about?»

I looked back. I could still see him through the window. He had returned to his pie.

By this time I had lost heart. I passed many houses by without venturing up to them. All houses looked alike, and none looked «good.» After walking half a dozen blocks I shook off my despondency and gathered my «nerve.» This begging for food was all a game, and if I didn’t like the cards, I could always call for a new deal. I made up my mind to tackle the next house. I approached it in the deepening twilight, going around to the kitchen door.

I knocked softly, and when I saw the kind face of the middle-aged woman who answered, as by inspiration came to me the «story» I was to tell. For know that upon his ability to tell a good story depends the success of the beggar. First of all, and on the instant, the beggar must «size up» his victim. After that, he must tell a story that will appeal to the peculiar personality and temperament of that particular victim. And right here arises the great difficulty: in the instant that he is sizing up the victim he must begin his story. Not a minute is allowed for preparation. As in a lightning flash he must divine the nature of the victim and conceive a tale that will hit home.

The successful hobo must be an artist. He must create spontaneously and instantaneously – and not upon a theme selected from the plenitude of his own imagination, but upon the theme he reads in the face of the person who opens the door, be it man, woman, or child, sweet or crabbed, generous or miserly, good-natured or cantankerous, Jew or Gentile, black or white, race-prejudiced or brotherly, provincial or universal, or whatever else it may be.

I have often thought that to this training of my tramp days is due much of my success as a story-writer. In order to get the food whereby I lived, I was compelled to tell tales that rang true. At the back door, out of inexorable necessity, is developed the convincingness and sincerity laid down by all authorities on the art of the short-story. Also, I quite believe it was my tramp-apprenticeship that made a realist out of me. Realism constitutes the only goods one can exchange at the kitchen door for grub.

After all, art is only consummate artfulness, and artfulness saves many a «story.» I remember lying in a police station at Winnipeg, Manitoba. I was bound west over the Canadian Pacific. Of course, the police wanted my story, and I gave it to them – on the spur of the moment. They were landlubbers, in the heart of the continent, and what better story for them than a sea story? They could never trip me up on that. And so I told a tearful tale of my life on the hell-ship Glenmore. (I had once seen the Glenmore lying at anchor in San Francisco Bay.)

I was an English apprentice, I said. And they said that I didn’t talk like an English boy. It was up to me to create on the instant. I had been born and reared in the United States. On the death of my parents, I had been sent to England to my grandparents. It was they who had apprenticed me on the Glenmore. I hope the captain of the Glenmore will forgive me, for I gave him a character that night in the Winnipeg police station. Such cruelty! Such brutality! Such diabolical ingenuity of torture! It explained why I had deserted the Glenmore at Montreal.

But why was I in the middle of Canada going west, when my grandparents lived in England? Promptly I created a married sister who lived in California. She would take care of me. I developed at length her loving nature. But they were not done with me, those hard-hearted policemen. I had joined the Glenmore in England; in the two years that had elapsed before my desertion at Montreal, what had the Glenmore done and where had she been?

And thereat I took those landlubbers around the world with me. Buffeted by pounding seas and stung with flying spray, they fought a typhoon with me off the coast of Japan. They loaded and unloaded cargo with me in all the ports of the Seven Seas. I took them to India, and Rangoon, and China, and had them hammer ice with me around the Horn and at last come to moorings at Montreal.

And then they said to wait a moment, and one policeman went forth into the night while I warmed myself at the stove, all the while racking my brains for the trap they were going to spring on me.

I groaned to myself when I saw him come in the door at the heels of the policeman. No gypsy prank had thrust those tiny hoops of gold through the ears; no prairie winds had beaten that skin into wrinkled leather; nor had snow-drift and mountain-slope put in his walk that reminiscent roll. And in those eyes, when they looked at me, I saw the unmistakable sun-wash of the sea. Here was a theme, alas! with half a dozen policemen to watch me read – I who had never sailed the China seas, nor been around the Horn, nor looked with my eyes upon India and Rangoon.

I was desperate. Disaster stalked before me incarnate in the form of that gold-ear-ringed, weather-beaten son of the sea. Who was he? What was he? I must solve him ere he solved me. I must take a new orientation, or else those wicked policemen would orientate me to a cell, a police court, and more cells. If he questioned me first, before I knew how much he knew, I was lost.

But did I betray my desperate plight to those lynx-eyed guardians of the public welfare of Winnipeg? Not I. I met that aged sailorman glad-eyed and beaming, with all the simulated relief at deliverance that a drowning man would display on finding a life-preserver in his last despairing clutch.

Here was a man who understood and who would verify my true story to the faces of those sleuth-hounds who did not understand, or, at least, such was what I endeavored to play-act. I seized upon him; I volleyed him with questions about himself. Before my judges I would prove the character of my savior before he saved me.

He was a kindly sailorman – an «easy mark.» The policemen grew impatient while I questioned him. At last one of them told me to shut up. I shut up; but while I remained shut up, I was busy creating, busy sketching the scenario of the next act. I had learned enough to go on with. He was a Frenchman. He had sailed always on French merchant vessels, with the one exception of a voyage on a «lime-juicer.» And last of all – blessed fact! – he had not been on the sea for twenty years.

The policeman urged him on to examine me.

«You called in at Rangoon?» he queried.

I nodded. «We put our third mate ashore there. Fever.»

If he had asked me what kind of fever, I should have answered, «Enteric,» though for the life of me I didn’t know what enteric was. But he didn’t ask me. Instead, his next question was:—

«And how is Rangoon?»

«All right. It rained a whole lot when we were there.»

«Did you get shore-leave?»

«Sure,» I answered. «Three of us apprentices went ashore together.»

«Do you remember the temple?»

«Which temple?» I parried.

«The big one, at the top of the stairway.»

If I remembered that temple, I knew I’d have to describe it. The gulf yawned for me.

I shook my head.

«You can see it from all over the harbor,» he informed me. «You don’t need shore-leave to see that temple.»

I never loathed a temple so in my life. But I fixed that particular temple at Rangoon.

«You can’t see it from the harbor,» I contradicted. «You can’t see it from the town. You can’t see it from the top of the stairway. Because – » I paused for the effect. «Because there isn’t any temple there.»

«But I saw it with my own eyes!» he cried.

«That was in – ?» I queried.

«Seventy-one.»

«It was destroyed in the great earthquake of 1887,» I explained. «It was very old.»

There was a pause. He was busy reconstructing in his old eyes the youthful vision of that fair temple by the sea.

«The stairway is still there,» I aided him. «You can see it from all over the harbor. And you remember that little island on the right-hand side coming into the harbor?»

I guess there must have been one there (I was prepared to shift it over to the left-hand side), for he nodded. «Gone,» I said. «Seven fathoms of water there now.»

I had gained a moment for breath. While he pondered on time’s changes, I prepared the finishing touches of my story.

«You remember the custom-house at Bombay?»

He remembered it.

«Burned to the ground,» I announced.

«Do you remember Jim Wan?» he came back at me.

«Dead,» I said; but who the devil Jim Wan was I hadn’t the slightest idea.

I was on thin ice again.

«Do you remember Billy Harper, at Shanghai?» I queried back at him quickly.

That aged sailorman worked hard to recollect, but the Billy Harper of my imagination was beyond his faded memory.

«Of course you remember Billy Harper,» I insisted. «Everybody knows him. He’s been there forty years. Well, he’s still there, that’s all.»