Девять рассказов

           Onlyoneortwooftherecliningpassengersspoketohim—thatis,madeanyofthecommonplacepleasantriesadultsaresometimespronetomaketoaten-year-oldboywhoissingle-mindedlylookingforthechairthatbelongstohim.Hisyoungnessandsingle-mindednesswereobviousenough,butperhapshisgeneraldemeanoraltogetherlacked,orhadtoolittleof,thatsortofcutesolemnitythatmanyadultsreadilyspeakup,ordown,to.Hisclothesmayhavehadsomethingtodowithit,too.TheholeintheshoulderofhisTshirtwasnotacutehole.Theexcessmaterialintheseatofhisseersuckershorts,theexcesslengthoftheshortsthemselves,werenotcuteexcesses.

           TheMcArdles’fourdeckchairs,cushionedandreadyforoccupancy,weresituatedinthemiddleofthesecondrowfromthefront.Teddysatdowninoneofthemsothat—whetherornotitwashisintention—noonewassittingdirectlyoneithersideofhim.Hestretchedouthisbare,unsuntannedlegs,feettogether,onthelegrest,and,almostsimultaneously,tookasmall,ten-centnotebookoutofhisrighthippocket.Then,withinstantlyone-pointedconcentration,asifonlyheandthenotebookexisted—nosunshine,nofellowpassengers,noship—,hebegantoturnthepages.

           Withtheexceptionofaveryfewpencilnotations,theentriesinthenotebookhadapparentlyallbeenmadewithaball-pointpen.Thehandwritingitselfwasmanuscriptstyle,suchasiscurrentlybeingtaughtinAmericanschools,insteadoftheold,Palmermethod.Itwaslegiblewithoutbeingpretty-pretty.