Jerry of the Islands / Джерри-островитянин. Книга для чтения на английском языке

Again he saw the twin braids of heavy golden hair ere his thumb relaxed from the switch, leaving him in darkness.

“Is the one alive yet?[90 - Is the one alive yet? – (разг.) Кто-нибудь живой?]” the shaken policeman asked.

And the question was repeated, while he struggled for will power sufficient to press on the light.

He heard himself reply, “I’ll tell you in a minute.”

Again he saw himself look. For a long minute he looked.

“Both dead,” he answered quietly.

“Clancey, pass in a number three jack, and get under yourself with another at the other end of the truck.”

He lay on his back, staring straight up at one single star that rocked mistily through a thinning of cloud-stuff overhead. The old ache was in his throat, the old harsh dryness in mouth and eyes. And he knew – what no other man knew – why he was in the Solomons, skipper of the teak-built yacht Arangi, running niggers, risking his head, and drinking more Scotch whiskey than was good for any man.

Not since that night had he looked with warm eyes on any woman. And he had been noted by other whites as notoriously cold toward pickanninnies white or black.

But, having visioned the ultimate horror of memory, Van Horn was soon able to fall asleep again, delightfully aware, as he drowsed off, of Jerry’s head on his shoulder. Once, when Jerry, dreaming of the beach at Meringe and of Mister Haggin, Biddy, Terrence, and Michael, set up a low whimpering, Van Horn roused sufficiently to soothe him closer to him, and to mutter ominously: “Any nigger that’d hurt that pup[91 - Any nigger that’d hurt that pup – (разг.

) Пусть какой-нибудь негр хоть тронет его]…”

At midnight when the mate touched him on the shoulder, in the moment of awakening and before he was awake Van Horn did two things automatically and swiftly. He darted his right hand down to the pistol at his hip, and muttered: “Any nigger that’d hurt that pup…”

“That’ll be Kopo Point abreast,” Borckman explained, as both men stared to windward at the high loom of the land.

“She hasn’t made more than ten miles, and no promise of anything steady.”

“There’s plenty of stuff making up there, if it’ll ever come down,” Van Horn said, as both men transferred their gaze to the clouds drifting with many breaks across the dim stars.