"London, Jack - TO BUILD A FIRE" - читать интересную книгу автора (London Jack)

But all this---the mysterious, far-reaching hairline trail,
the absence of sun from the sky, the tremendous cold, and the
strangeness and weirdness of it all--made no impression on the
man. It was not because he was long used to it. He was a newcomer
in the land, a "chechaquo", and this was his first winter. The
trouble with him was that he was without imagination. He was
quick and alert in the things of life, but only in the things,
and not in the significances. Fifty degrees below zero meant
eighty odd degrees of frost. Such fact impressed him as being
cold and uncomfortable, and that was all. It did not lead him to
meditate upon his frailty in general, able only to live within
certain narrow limits of heat and cold; and from there on it did
not lead him to the conjectural field of immortality and man's
place in the universe. Fifty degrees below zero stood for a bite
of frost that hurt and that must be guarded against by the use of
mittens, ear flaps, warm moccasins, and thick socks. Fifty
degrees below zero was to him just precisely fifty degrees below
zero. That there should be anything more to it than that was a
thought that never entered his head.

As he turned to go, he spat speculatively. There was a
sharp, explosive crackle that startled him. He spat again. And
again, in the air, before it could fall to the snow, the spittle
crackled. He knew that at fifty below spittle crackled on the
snow, but this spittle had crackled in the air. Undoubtedly it
was colder than fifty below--how much colder he did not know. But
the temperature did not matter. He was bound for the old claim on
the left fork of Henderson Creek, where the boys were already.
They had come over across the divide from the Indian Creek
country, while he had come the roundabout way to take a look at
the possibility of getting out logs in the spring from the
islands in the Yukon. He would be in to camp by six o'clock; a
bit after dark, it ws true, but the boys would be there, a fire
would be going, and a hot supper would be ready. As for lunch, he
pressed his hand against the protruding bundle under his jacket.
It was also under his shirt, wrapped up in a handkerchief and
lying against the naked skin. It was the only way to keep the
biscuits from freezing. He smiled agreeably to himself as he
thought of those biscuits, each cut open and sopped in bacon
grease, and each enclosing a generous slice of fried bacon.

He plunged in among the big spruce trees. The trail was
faint. A foot of snow had fallen since the last sled had passed
over, and he was glad he was without a sled, travelling light. In
fact, he carried nothing but the lunch wrapped in the
handkerchief. He was surprised, however, at the cold. It
certainly was cold, he concluded, as he rubbed his numb nose and
cheekbones with his mittened hand. He was a warm-whiskered man,
but the hair on his face did not protect the high cheekbones and
the eager nose that thrust itself aggressively into the frosty