"Arthur C. Doyle - The Poison Belt" - читать интересную книгу автора (Clarke Arthur C)

all this was dreadful and deplorable. Like a wave, the memory of
the past swept over me, the good comradeship, the happy,
adventurous days--all that we had suffered and worked for and
won. That it should have come to this--to insults and abuse!
Suddenly I was sobbing--sobbing in loud, gulping, uncontrollable
sobs which refused to be concealed. My companions looked at me
in surprise. I covered my face with my hands.

"It's all right," said I. "Only--only it _is_ such a pity!"

"You're ill, young fellah, that's what's amiss with you," said
Lord John. "I thought you were queer from the first."

"Your habits, sir, have not mended in these three years," said
Summerlee, shaking his head. "I also did not fail to observe
your strange manner the moment we met. You need not waste your
sympathy, Lord John. These tears are purely alcoholic. The man
has been drinking. By the way, Lord John, I called you a coxcomb
just now, which was perhaps unduly severe. But the word reminds
me of a small accomplishment, trivial but amusing, which I used
to possess. You know me as the austere man of science. Can you
believe that I once had a well-deserved reputation in several
nurseries as a farmyard imitator? Perhaps I can help you to pass
the time in a pleasant way. Would it amuse you to hear me crow
like a cock?"

"No, sir," said Lord John, who was still greatly offended, "it
would _not_ amuse me."

"My imitation of the clucking hen who had just laid an egg was
also considered rather above the average. Might I venture?"

"No, sir, no--certainly not."

But in spite of this earnest prohibition, Professor Summerlee
laid down his pipe and for the rest of our journey he
entertained--or failed to entertain--us by a succession of bird
and animal cries which seemed so absurd that my tears were
suddenly changed into boisterous laughter, which must have
become quite hysterical as I sat opposite this grave Professor
and saw him--or rather heard him--in the character of the
uproarious rooster or the puppy whose tail had been trodden
upon. Once Lord John passed across his newspaper, upon the
margin of which he had written in pencil, "Poor devil! Mad as a
hatter." No doubt it was very eccentric, and yet the performance
struck me as extraordinarily clever and amusing.

Whilst this was going on, Lord John leaned forward and told me
some interminable story about a buffalo and an Indian rajah
which seemed to me to have neither beginning nor end. Professor