bookssland.com Ā» Other Ā» Lost Face - Jack London (free ebook reader .TXT) šŸ“—

Book online Ā«Lost Face - Jack London (free ebook reader .TXT) šŸ“—Ā». Author Jack London



1 ... 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 ... 42
Go to page:
himself beaten. One by one he led his helpless guests across the kitchen floor and thrust them outside. Oā€™Brien came last, and the three, with arms locked for mutual aid, titubated gravely on the stoop.

ā€œGood business man, Curly,ā€ Oā€™Brien was saying. ā€œMust say like your styleā ā€”fine anā€™ generous, freehanded hospitalā ā€Šā ā€¦ hospitalā ā€Šā ā€¦ hospitality. Credit to you. Nothinā€™ base ā€™n graspinā€™ in your makeup. As I was sayinā€™ā ā€”ā€

But just then the faro dealer slammed the door.

The three laughed happily on the stoop. They laughed for a long time. Then Mucluc Charley essayed speech.

ā€œFunnyā ā€”laughed so hardā ā€”ainā€™t what I want to say. My idea isā ā€Šā ā€¦ what wash it? Oh, got it! Funny how ideas slip. Elusive ideaā ā€”chasinā€™ elusive ideaā ā€”great sport. Ever chase rabbits, Percy, my frienā€™? I had dogā ā€”great rabbit dog. Whash ā€™is name? Donā€™t know nameā ā€”never had no nameā ā€”forget nameā ā€”elusive nameā ā€”chasinā€™ elusive nameā ā€”no, ideaā ā€”elusive idea, but got itā ā€”what I want to say wasā ā€”O hell!ā€

Thereafter there was silence for a long time. Oā€™Brien slipped from their arms to a sitting posture on the stoop, where he slept gently. Mucluc Charley chased the elusive idea through all the nooks and crannies of his drowning consciousness. Leclaire hung fascinated upon the delayed utterance. Suddenly the otherā€™s hand smote him on the back.

ā€œGot it!ā€ Mucluc Charley cried in stentorian tones.

The shock of the jolt broke the continuity of Leclaireā€™s mental process.

ā€œHow much to the pan?ā€ he demanded.

ā€œPan nothinā€™!ā€ Mucluc Charley was angry. ā€œIdeaā ā€”got itā ā€”got leg-holdā ā€”ran it down.ā€

Leclaireā€™s face took on a rapt, admiring expression, and again he hung upon the otherā€™s lips.

ā€œā€¦ O hell!ā€ said Mucluc Charley.

At this moment the kitchen door opened for an instant, and Curly Jim shouted, ā€œGo home!ā€

ā€œFunny,ā€ said Mucluc Charley. ā€œShame ideaā ā€”very shame as mine. Leā€™s go home.ā€

They gathered Oā€™Brien up between them and started. Mucluc Charley began aloud the pursuit of another idea. Leclaire followed the pursuit with enthusiasm. But Oā€™Brien did not follow it. He neither heard, nor saw, nor knew anything. He was a mere wobbling automaton, supported affectionately and precariously by his two business associates.

They took the path down by the bank of the Yukon. Home did not lie that way, but the elusive idea did. Mucluc Charley giggled over the idea that he could not catch for the edification of Leclaire. They came to where Siskiyou Pearlyā€™s boat lay moored to the bank. The rope with which it was tied ran across the path to a pine stump. They tripped over it and went down, Oā€™Brien underneath. A faint flash of consciousness lighted his brain. He felt the impact of bodies upon his and struck out madly for a moment with his fists. Then he went to sleep again. His gentle snore arose on the air, and Mucluc Charley began to giggle.

ā€œNew idea,ā€ he volunteered, ā€œbrand new idea. Jesā€™ caught itā ā€”no trouble at all. Came right up anā€™ I patted it on the head. Itā€™s mine. ā€™Brienā€™s drunkā ā€”beashly drunk. Shameā ā€”damn shameā ā€”learnā€™m lesshon. Trash Pearlyā€™s boat. Put ā€™Brien in Pearlyā€™s boat. Casht offā ā€”let her go down Yukon. ā€™Brien wake up in morninā€™. Current too strongā ā€”canā€™t row boat ā€™gainst currentā ā€”mush walk back. Come back madder ā€™n hatter. You anā€™ me headinā€™ for tall timber. Learn ā€™m lesshon jesā€™ shame, learn ā€™m lesshon.ā€

Siskiyou Pearlyā€™s boat was empty, save for a pair of oars. Its gunwale rubbed against the bank alongside of Oā€™Brien. They rolled him over into it. Mucluc Charley cast off the painter, and Leclaire shoved the boat out into the current. Then, exhausted by their labours, they lay down on the bank and slept.

Next morning all Red Cow knew of the joke that had been played on Marcus Oā€™Brien. There were some tall bets as to what would happen to the two perpetrators when the victim arrived back. In the afternoon a lookout was set, so that they would know when he was sighted. Everybody wanted to see him come in. But he didnā€™t come, though they sat up till midnight. Nor did he come next day, nor the next. Red Cow never saw Marcus Oā€™Brien again, and though many conjectures were entertained, no certain clue was ever gained to dispel the mystery of his passing.

Only Marcus Oā€™Brien knew, and he never came back to tell. He awoke next morning in torment. His stomach had been calcined by the inordinate quantity of whisky he had drunk, and was a dry and raging furnace. His head ached all over, inside and out; and, worse than that, was the pain in his face. For six hours countless thousands of mosquitoes had fed upon him, and their ungrateful poison had swollen his face tremendously. It was only by a severe exertion of will that he was able to open narrow slits in his face through which he could peer. He happened to move his hands, and they hurt. He squinted at them, but failed to recognize them, so puffed were they by the mosquito virus. He was lost, or rather, his identity was lost to him. There was nothing familiar about him, which, by association of ideas, would cause to rise in his consciousness the continuity of his existence. He was divorced utterly from his past, for there was nothing about him to resurrect in his consciousness a memory of that past. Besides, he was so sick and miserable that he lacked energy and inclination to seek after who and what he was.

It was not until he discovered a crook in a little finger, caused by an unset breakage of years before, that he knew himself to be Marcus Oā€™Brien. On the instant his past rushed into his consciousness. When he discovered a blood-blister under a thumbnail, which he had received the previous week, his self-identification became doubly sure, and he knew that those unfamiliar hands belonged to Marcus Oā€™Brien, or, just as much to the point, that Marcus Oā€™Brien belonged to the hands. His first thought was that he was illā ā€”that he had had river fever. It hurt him so much to open his eyes that he kept them closed. A

1 ... 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 ... 42
Go to page:

Free e-book Ā«Lost Face - Jack London (free ebook reader .TXT) šŸ“—Ā» - read online now

Comments (0)

There are no comments yet. You can be the first!
Add a comment