Человек, который смеется / The Man Who Laughs. Уровень 4

The one was growling, the other speaking.

“Come in!” said the man, who was Ursus.

The child entered.

“Put down your bundle.”

The child placed his burden carefully on the top of the chest. The man continued, -

“How gently you put it down! Worthless vagabond! In the streets at this hour! Who are you? Answer! But no. I forbid you to answer. There! You are cold. Warm yourself as quick as you can,” and he shoved him by the shoulders in front of the fire.

“How wet you are! You’re frozen through! A nice state to come into a house! Come, take off those rags, you villain! Here are clothes.

”

He chose out of a heap a woollen rag, and chafed before the fire the limbs of the exhausted and bewildered child. The man wiped the boy’s feet.

“Come, you rascal. Dress yourself!”

The child put on the shirt, and the man slipped the knitted jacket over it.

“Now…”

The man kicked the stool forward. Then he pointed with his finger to the porringer which was smoking upon the stove.

The child saw a potato and a bit of bacon.

“You are hungry; eat!”

The man took from the shelf a crust of hard bread and an iron fork, and handed them to the child.

The boy hesitated.

“Perhaps you expect me to lay the cloth,” said the man, and he placed the porringer on the child’s lap.

Hunger overcame astonishment. The child began to eat. The poor boy devoured rather than ate. The man grumbled, -

“Not so quick, you horrid glutton! Isn’t he a greedy scoundrel? In my time I have seen dukes eat.

They don’t eat; that’s noble. They drink, however. Come, you pig!”

The boy did not hear. He was absorbed by food and warmth. Ursus continued his imprecations, muttering to himself, -

“I have seen King James in the Banqueting House. His Majesty touched nothing. This beggar here eats like a horse. Why did I come to this Weymouth? I have sold nothing since morning. I have played the flute to the hurricane. I have not pocketed a farthing; and now, tonight, beggars drop in.

Horrid place! Well, today I’ve made nothing. Not an idiot on the highway, not a penny in the till. Eat away, hell-born boy! Fatten at my expense, parasite! This wretched boy is more than hungry; he is mad. It is not appetite, it is ferocity. He is carried away by a rabid virus. Perhaps he has the plague. Have you the plague, you thief? Let the populace die, but not my wolf. But I am hungry myself.