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Lin McLean-Part4_Owen Wister(1860-1938)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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Frank said nothing. He saw one of the members of his club on the other

side of the way, and the member saw him, and Frank caught diverted



amazement on the member's face. Lin's hand weighed on his shoulder, and

the stress became too great. "Lin," said he, "while you're running with



our crowd, you don't want to wear that style of hat, you know."

It may be that such words can in some way be spoken at such a time, but



not in the way that these were said. The frozen fact was irrevocably

revealed in the tone of Frank's voice.



The cow-puncher stopped dead short, and his hand slid off his brother's

shoulder. "You've made it plain," he said, evenly, slanting his steady



eyes down into Frank's. "You've explained yourself fairly well. Run along

with your crowd, and I'll not bother yu' more with comin' round and



causin' yu' to feel ashamed. It's a heap better to understand these

things at once, and save making a fool of yourself any longer 'n yu' need



to. I guess there ain't no more to be said, only one thing. If yu' see me

around on the street, don't yu' try any talk, for I'd be liable to close



your jaw up, and maybe yu'd have more of a job explainin' that to your

crowd than you've had makin' me see what kind of a man I've got for a



brother."

Frank found himself standing alone before any reply to these sentences



had occurred to him. He walked slowly to his club, where a friend joked

him on his glumness.



Lin made a sore failure of amusing himself that night; and in the bright,

hot morning he got into the train for Swampscott. At the graveyard he saw



a woman lay a bunch of flowers on a mound and kneel, weeping.

"There ain't nobody to do that for this one," thought the cow-puncher,



and looked down at the grave he had come to see, then absently gazed at

the woman.



She had stolen away from her daily life to come here where her grief was

shrined, and now her heart found it hard to bid the lonely place goodbye.



So she lingered long, her thoughts sunk deep in the motionless past. When

she at last looked up, she saw the tall, strange man re-enter from the



street among the tombs, and deposit on one of them an ungainly lump of

flowers. They were what Lin had been able hastily to buy in Swampscott.



He spread them gently as he had noticed the woman do, but her act of

kneeling he did not imitate. He went away quickly. For some hours he hung



about the little town, aimlessly loitering, watching the salt water where

he used to swim.



"Yu' don't belong any more, Lin," he miserably said at length, and took

his way to Boston.



The next morning, determined to see the sights, he was in New York, and

drifted about to all places night and day, till his money was mostly



gone, and nothing to show for it but a somewhat pleasure-beaten face and

a deep hatred of the crowded, scrambling East. So he suddenly bought a



ticket for Green River, Wyoming, and escaped from the city that seemed to

numb his good humor.



When, after three days, the Missouri lay behind him and his holiday, he

stretched his legs and took heart to see out of the window the signs of



approaching desolation. And when on the fourth day civilization was

utterly emptied out of the world, he saw a bunch of cattle, and,



galloping among them, his spurred and booted kindred. And his manner took

on that alertness a horse shows on turning into the home road. As the



stage took him toward Washakie, old friends turned up every fifty miles

or so, shambling out of a cabin or a stable, and saying, in casual tones,



"Hello, Lin, where've you been at?"

At Lander, there got into the stage another old acquaintance, the Bishop



of Wyoming. He knew Lin at once, and held out his hand, and his greeting

was hearty.



"It took a week for my robes to catch up with me," he said, laughing.

Then, in a little while, "How was the East?"



"First-rate," said Lin, not looking at him. He was shy of the

conversation's taking a moral turn. But the bishop had no intention of



reverting--at any rate, just now--to their last talk at Green River, and

the advice he had then given.



"I trust your friends were all well?" he said.

"I guess they was healthy enough," said Lin.



"I suppose you found Boston much changed? It's a beautiful city."

"Good enough town for them that likes it, I expect," Lin replied.



The bishop was forming a notion of what the matter must be, but he had no

notion whatever of what now revealed itself.



"Mr. Bishop," the cow-puncher said, "how was that about that fellow you




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