The Turtles of Tasman

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Джек Лондон. The Turtles of Tasman

BY THE TURTLES OF TASMAN

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VI

THE ETERNITY OF FORMS

TOLD IN THE DROOLING WARD

THE HOBO AND THE FAIRY

THE PRODIGAL FATHER

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II

THE FIRST POET

FINIS

THE END OF THE STORY

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Отрывок из книги

Law, order, and restraint had carved Frederick Travers' face. It was the strong, firm face of one used to power and who had used power with wisdom and discretion. Clean living had made the healthy skin, and the lines graved in it were honest lines. Hard and devoted work had left its wholesome handiwork, that was all. Every feature of the man told the same story, from the clear blue of the eyes to the full head of hair, light brown, touched with grey, and smoothly parted and drawn straight across above the strong-domed forehead. He was a seriously groomed man, and the light summer business suit no more than befitted his alert years, while it did not shout aloud that its possessor was likewise the possessor of numerous millions of dollars and property.

For Frederick Travers hated ostentation. The machine that waited outside for him under the porte-cochère was sober black. It was the most expensive machine in the county, yet he did not care to flaunt its price or horse-power in a red flare across the landscape, which also was mostly his, from the sand dunes and the everlasting beat of the Pacific breakers, across the fat bottomlands and upland pastures, to the far summits clad with redwood forest and wreathed in fog and cloud.

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"But he couldn't save the grist mill. It was a serious setback to him."

"Just the same he nailed four Indians."

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