Девять рассказов
Down at the Dinghy
Butmytruecallingisfirst,last,andalwaysthebounding-"
"Youaren’tanadmiral,"Lionelsaid.
"Ibegyourpardon?"
"Youaren’tanadmiral.You’realadyallthetime."
Therewasashortsilence.Lionelfilleditbychangingthecourseofhiscraftagain-hisholdonthetillerwasatwo-armedone.Hewaswearingkhaki-coloredshortsandaclean,whiteT-shirtwithadyepicture,acrossthechest,ofJerometheOstrichplayingtheviolin.Hewasquitetanned,andhishair,whichwasalmostexactlylikehismother’sincolorandquality,wasalittlesun-bleachedontop.
"ManypeoplethinkI’mnotanadmiral,"BooBoosaid,watchinghim."JustbecauseIdon’tshootmymouthoffaboutit."Keepingherbalance,shetookacigaretteandmatchesoutofthesidepocketofherjeans."I’malmostnevertemptedtodiscussmyrankwithpeople.Especiallywithlittleboyswhodon’tevenlookatmewhenItalktothem.I’dbedrummedoutofthebloomin’service."Withoutlightinghercigarette,shesuddenlygottoherfeet,stoodunreasonablyerect,madeanovaloutofthethumbandindexfingerofherrighthand,drewtheovaltohermouth,and-kazoostyle-soundedsomethinglikeabuglecall.Lionelinstantlylookedup.Inallprobability,hewasawarethatthecallwasbogus,butnonethelessheseemeddeeplyaroused;hismouthfellopen.BooBoosoundedthecall-apeculiaramalgamationof"Taps"and"Reveille"-threetimes,withoutanypauses.Then,ceremoniously,shesalutedtheoppositeshoreline.
