Читать книгу The Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald онлайн

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One bright summer’s day, he left his house and strolled toward the garden, where the day before he had planted in despair some “store-bought” pansies. He perceived to his surprise a long, thin, slippery-looking figure bending over, picking his new acquisitions. With quiet tread he approached, and, as the invader turned around, he said severely:

“What are you doing, sir?”

“I was plucking—er—a few posies—”

The long, thin, slippery-looking figure got no further. Though the face had been strange to Bartney, the voice, a thin, querulous falsetto, was one he would never forget. He advanced slowly, eyeing the owner of that voice, as the wolf eyes his prey.

“Well, Mr. Skiggs, how is it I find you on my property?”

Mr. Skiggs appeared unaccountably shy and looked the other way.

“I repeat,” said Bartney, “that I find you here on my property—and in my power.”

“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Skiggs, squirming in alarm.

Bartney grabbed him by the collar, and shook him as a terrier does a rat.

“You conceited imp of Christian Science! You miserable hypocrite! What?” he demanded fiercely, as Skiggs emitted a cry of protest. “You yell. How dare you? Don’t you know there is no such thing as pain? Come on, now, give me some of that Christian Science. Say ‘mind is everything.’ Say it!”