Lost Face - Jack London (free ebook reader .TXT) š
- Author: Jack London
Book online Ā«Lost Face - Jack London (free ebook reader .TXT) šĀ». Author Jack London
āOstrich farm,ā Mucluc Charley volunteered.
āSure, just what Iām goinā to start.ā OāBrien abruptly steadied himself and looked with awe at Mucluc Charley. āHow did you know? Never said so. Jesā thought I said so. Youāre a minā reader, Charley. Leās have another.ā
Curly Jim filled the glasses and had the pleasure of seeing four dollarsā worth of whisky disappear, one dollarās worth of which he punished himselfā āOāBrien insisted that he should drink as frequently as his guests.
āBetter take the money now,ā Leclaire argued. āTake you two years to dig it out the hole, anā all that time you might be hatchinā teeny little baby ostriches anā pulling feathers out the big ones.ā
OāBrien considered the proposition and nodded approval. Curly Jim looked gratefully at Leclaire and refilled the glasses.
āHold on there!ā spluttered Mucluc Charley, whose tongue was beginning to wag loosely and trip over itself. āAs your father confessorā āthere I goā āas your brotherā āO hell!ā He paused and collected himself for another start. āAs your frienāā ābusiness frienā, I should say, I would suggest, ratherā āI would take the liberty, as it was, to mentionā āI mean, suggest, that there may be more ostrichesā āā ā¦ O hell!ā He downed another glass, and went on more carefully. āWhat Iām drivinā at isā āā ā¦ what am I drivinā at?ā He smote the side of his head sharply half a dozen times with the heel of his palm to shake up his ideas. āI got it!ā he cried jubilantly. āSupposen thereās slathers moreān ten thousand dollars in that hole!ā
OāBrien, who apparently was all ready to close the bargain, switched about.
āGreat!ā he cried. āSplenād idea. Never thought of it all by myself.ā He took Mucluc Charley warmly by the hand. āGood frienā! Good āsāciate!ā He turned belligerently on Curly Jim. āMaybe hundred thousand dollars in that hole. You wouldnāt rob your old frienā, would you, Curly? Course you wouldnāt. I know youā ābetterān yourself, betterān yourself. Leās have another: Weāre good frienās, all of us, I say, all of us.ā
And so it went, and so went the whisky, and so went Curly Jimās hopes up and down. Now Leclaire argued in favour of immediate sale, and almost won the reluctant OāBrien over, only to lose him to the more brilliant counterargument of Mucluc Charley. And again, it was Mucluc Charley who presented convincing reasons for the sale and Percy Leclaire who held stubbornly back. A little later it was OāBrien himself who insisted on selling, while both friends, with tears and curses, strove to dissuade him. The more whiskey they downed, the more fertile of imagination they became. For one sober pro or con they found a score of drunken ones; and they convinced one another so readily that they were perpetually changing sides in the argument.
The time came when both Mucluc Charley and Leclaire were firmly set upon the sale, and they gleefully obliterated OāBrienās objections as fast as he entered them. OāBrien grew desperate. He exhausted his last argument and sat speechless. He looked pleadingly at the friends who had deserted him. He kicked Mucluc Charleyās shins under the table, but that graceless hero immediately unfolded a new and most logical reason for the sale. Curly Jim got pen and ink and paper and wrote out the bill of sale. OāBrien sat with pen poised in hand.
āLeās have one more,ā he pleaded. āOne more before I sign away a hundred thousanā dollars.ā
Curly Jim filled the glasses triumphantly. OāBrien downed his drink and bent forward with wobbling pen to affix his signature. Before he had made more than a blot, he suddenly started up, impelled by the impact of an idea colliding with his consciousness. He stood upon his feet and swayed back and forth before them, reflecting in his startled eyes the thought process that was taking place behind. Then he reached his conclusion. A benevolent radiance suffused his countenance. He turned to the faro dealer, took his hand, and spoke solemnly.
āCurly, youāre my frienā. Thereās my hanā. Shake. Olā man, I wonāt do it. Wonāt sell. Wonāt rob a frienā. No son-of-a-gun will ever have chance to say Marcus OāBrien robbed frienā cause frienā was drunk. Youāre drunk, Curly, anā I wonāt rob you. Jesā had thoughtā ānever thought it beforeā ādonāt know what the matter āith me, but never thought it before. Suppose, jesā suppose, Curly, my olā frienā, jesā suppose there aināt ten thousanā in whole damn claim. Youād be robbed. No, sir; wonāt do it. Marcus OāBrien makes money out of the grounā, not out of his frienās.ā
Percy Leclaire and Mucluc Charley drowned the faro dealerās objections in applause for so noble a sentiment. They fell upon OāBrien from either side, their arms lovingly about his neck, their mouths so full of words they could not hear Curlyās offer to insert a clause in the document to the effect that if there werenāt ten thousand in the claim he would be given back the difference between yield and purchase price. The longer they talked the more maudlin and the more noble the discussion became. All sordid motives were banished. They were a trio of philanthropists striving to save Curly Jim from himself and his own philanthropy. They insisted that he was a philanthropist. They refused to accept for a moment that there could be found one ignoble thought in all the world. They crawled and climbed and scrambled over high ethical plateaus and ranges, or drowned themselves in metaphysical seas of sentimentality.
Curly Jim sweated and fumed and poured out the whisky. He found himself with a score of arguments on his hands, not one of which had anything to do with the goldmine he wanted to buy. The longer they talked the farther away they got from that goldmine, and at two in the morning Curly Jim acknowledged
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