"Mack Reynolds - North Africa 03 - The Best Ye Breed" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reynolds Mack)

notice in particular, that the collar was dirty. He had worn the shirt for
four days and should have known better than to sleep in it the night
before. It had been his last clean shirt. Not that that had made a great
deal of difference. It was frayed at collar and cuff.
He soaped up with the lukewarm water, carefully applying the lather.
He took the blade out of the safety razor and stropped it in the palm of his
hand. He couldnтАЩt remember how long heтАЩd used the blade but it was far
from sharp.
He cut himself two or three times, a result of poor blade and shaking
hand, washed the remnants of soap from his face and stood back and
looked again. The view wasnтАЩt reassuring. He remembered the night, years
ago, when he had once spent over a hundred British pounds on vintage
champagneтАФand snorted.
He didnтАЩt know what time it was. Long since he had pawned his watch.
Pawned? Both he and the pawnbroker knew full well that he had sold it.
There would be no redeeming.
HeтАЩd have to get down to the dining room and see if he was still in time
for breakfast. If he wasnтАЩt, he suspected that it was going to be a hungry
day. In an Irish hotel, at this level, one paid for bed-and-breakfast. A far
cry from the Continental breakfast of coffee, croissants and marmalade,
an Irish breakfast could tide you over for the better part of the day. You
got two fried eggs, two or three rashers of bacon, largely fat, little lean,
fried tomatoes, fried potatoes, several slices of thick, heavy toast and
butter, along with your tea. Yes, if necessary, it would tide you over for the
balance of the day. Perhaps you could invest in a couple of sweet rolls and
another cup of tea, or even coffee, in the late afternoon, but you could live
on the number of calories in an Irish breakfast. In his day, he had gone for
a week or more, hell, a month or more, on less.
But for a moment he regarded himself in the mirror, after he had taken
on his jacket and folded his collar out over the jacket top. He had two or
three ties but they were so woebegone that he looked worse wearing one
than without.
The jacket had once been excellent, a product of a period when he had
money to blow. It was Donegal tweed and tailored to him perfectlyтАФ when
he had weighed possibly a stone and a half more than he did now. But that
was some years ago and now it was the only jacket he owned, so that he
wore it dailyтАФincluding such occasions as when he was in the drunk tank,
or sleeping it off in an alleyway. He had patched it at elbow and at cuff
with soft leather. And this he had done personallyтАФno tailor for him. Sean
Ryan, in his day, in the field, had learned to do his own sewing and did a
quite respectable job.
 For a moment, he dreamed. If he could only get a few pounds. If he
could only get himself a new outfit, a suit, a snowwhite clean shirt, a
decent tie, new boots. Why, then he could go out and look for a reasonable
job. After all, he had been to college, he was a gentleman, a retired officer.
He had more decorations than he could off-hand remember. He snorted at
that one. He even had one decoration that took up an eighth of his chest, if
worn. It involved a golden dragon. Had it come from the Nationalist
Chinese or from Thailand?
But then he faced reality. How could he get his hands on a few pounds?