"Oh-o-oh! if
we only could-"
"Yes!"
"Yes!"
"And then I'd-"
"O-o-oh!"
VIII
The Swede, tightly gripping his valise, tacked across the face of
the storm as if he carried sails. He was following a line of little
naked gasping trees, which he knew must mark the way of the road.
His face, fresh from the pounding of Johnnie's fists, felt more
pleasure than pain in the wind and the driving snow. A number of
square shapes loomed upon him finally, and he knew them as the
houses of the main body of the town. He found a street and made travel
along it, leaning heavily upon the wind whenever, at a corner, a
terrific blast caught him.
He might have been in a deserted village. We picture the world as
thick with conquering and elate humanity, but here, with the bugles of
the tempest pealing, it was hard to imagine a peopled earth. One
viewed the existence of man then as a marvel, and conceded a glamour
of wonder to these lice which were caused to cling to a whirling,
fire-smote, ice-locked, disease-stricken, space-lost bulb. The conceit
of man was explained by this storm to be the very engine of life.
One was a coxcomb not to die in it. However, the Swede found a saloon.
In front of it an indomitable red light was burning, and the
snowflakes were made blood-color as they flew through the
circumscribed territory of the lamp's shining.
Pages:
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43