"Шервуд Андерсен. Белый бедняк (engl) " - читать интересную книгу автора

little away from the bank and then turned to look back. A shiver ran over
his body. Into his mind came the sickening fear that the telegraph operator
at Pickleville was not an inventor at all. The town was full of tales, and
in the bank he had taken advantage of that fact to make an impression;
but what proof had he? No one had seen one of the inventions supposed to
have been worked out by the mysterious stranger from Missouri. There had
after all been nothing but whispered suspicions, old wives' tales, fables
invented by men who had nothing to do but loaf in the drug-store and make
up stories.

The thought that Hugh McVey might not be an inventor overpowered him and he
put it quickly aside. He had something more immediate to think about. The
story of the bluff he had just made in the bank would be found out and the
whole town would rock with laughter at his expense. The young men of the
town did not like him. They would roll the story over on their tongues.
Ribald old fellows who had nothing else to do would take up the story with
joy and would elaborate it. Fellows like the cabbage farmer, Ezra French,
who had a talent for saying cutting things would exercise it. They would
make up imaginary inventions, grotesque, absurd inventions. Then they would
get young fellows to come to him and propose that he take them up, promote
them, and make every one rich. Men would shout jokes at him as he went
along Main Street. His dignity would be gone forever. He would be made a
fool of by the very school boys as he had been in his youth when he bought
the bicycle and rode it about before the eyes of other boys in the
evenings.

Steve hurried out of Main Street and went over the bridge that crossed the
river into Turner's Pike. He did not know what he intended to do, but felt
there was much at stake and that he would have to do something at once.
It was a warm, cloudy day and the road that led to Pickleville was muddy.
During the night before it had rained and more rain was promised. The path
beside the road was slippery, and so absorbed was he that as he plunged
along, his feet slipped out from under him and he sat down in a small pool
of water. A farmer driving past along the road turned to laugh at him. "You
go to hell," Steve shouted. "You just mind your own business and go to
hell."

The distracted young man tried to walk sedately along the path. The long
grass that grew beside the path wet his shoes, and his hands were wet and
muddy. Farmers turned on their wagon seats to stare at him. For some
obscure reason he could not himself understand, he was terribly afraid to
face Hugh McVey. In the bank he had been in the presence of men who were
trying to get the best of him, to make a fool of him, to have fun at his
expense. He had felt that and had resented it. The knowledge had given him
a certain kind of boldness; it had enabled his mind to make up the story
of the inventor secretly employed at his own expense and the city bankers
anxious to furnish him capital. Although he was terribly afraid of
discovery, he felt a little glow of pride at the thought of the boldness
with which he had taken the letters out of his pocket and had challenged
the two men to call his bluff.