She’s good， he thought. She is sound and not harmed in any way except for the tiller. That is easily replaced.
He could feel he was inside the current now and he could see the lights of the beach colonies along the shore. He knew where he was now and it was nothing to get home.
The wind is our friend， anyway， he thought. Then he added， sometimes. And the great sea with our friends and our enemies. And bed， he thought. Bed is my friend. Just bed， he thought. Bed will be a great thing. It is easy when you are beaten， he thought. I never knew how easy it was. And what beat you， he thought.
“Nothing，” he said aloud. “I went out too far.”
When he sailed into the little harbour the lights of the Terrace were out and he knew everyone was in bed. The breeze had risen steadily and wasblowing strongly now. It was quiet in the harbour though and he sailed up onto the little patch of shingle below the rocks. There was no one to help him so he pulled the boat up as far as he could. Then he stepped out and made her fast to a rock.
He unstepped the mast and furled the sail and tied it. Then he shouldered the mast and started to climb. It was then he knew the depth of his tiredness. He stopped for a moment and looked back and saw in the reflection from the street light the great tail of the fish standing up well behind the skiff ’s stern. He saw the white naked line of his backbone and the dark mass of the head with the projecting bill and all the nakedness between.
He started to climb again and at the top he fell and lay for some time with the mast across his shoulder. He tried to get up. But it was too difficult and he sat there with the mast on his shoulder and looked at the road. A cat passed on the far side going about its business and the old man watched it. Then he just watched the road.
Finally he put the mast down and stood up. He picked the mast up and put it on his shoulder and started up the road. He had to sit down five times before he reached his shack.
Inside the shack he leaned the mast against the wall. In the dark he found a water bottle and took a drink. Then he lay down on the bed. He pulled the blanket over his shoulders and then over his back and legs and he slept face down on the newspapers with his arms out straight and the palms of his hands up.
41
The Last Leaf
最后的常春藤叶
In a little district west of Washington Square the streets have run crazy and broken themselves into small strips called “places.” These “places” make strange angles and curves. One Street crosses itself a time or two. An artist once discovered a valuable possibility in this street. Suppose a collector with a bill for paints， paper and canvas should， in traversing this route， suddenly meet himself coming back， without a cent having been paid on account！
So， to quaint old Greenwich Village the art people soon came prowling， hunting for north windows and eighteenth-century gables and Dutch attics and low rents. Then they imported some pewter mugs and a chafing dish or two from Sixth Avenue， and became a “colony.”
At the top of a squatty， three-story brick Sue and Johnsy had their studio. “Johnsy” was familiar for Joanna. One was from Maine； the other from California. They had met at the table d’h？te of an Eighth Street “Delmonico’s，” and found their tastes in art， chicory salad and bishop sleeves so congenial that the joint studio resulted.
That was in May. In November a cold， unseen stranger， whom the doctors called Pneumonia， stalked about the colony， touching one here and there with his icy fingers. Over on the east side this ravager strode boldly， smiting his victims by scores， but his feet trod slowly through the maze of the narrow and moss-grown “places.”
Mr. Pneumonia was not what you would call a chivalric old gentleman. A mite of a little woman with blood thinned by California zephyrs washardly fair game for the red-fisted， short-breathed old duffer. But Johnsy he smote； and she lay， scarcely moving， on her painted iron bedstead， looking through the small Dutch window-panes at the blank side of the next brick house.
One morning the busy doctor invited Sue into the hallway with a shaggy， grey eyebrow.
“She has one chance in—let us say， ten，” he said， as he shook down the mercury in his clinical thermometer. “And that chance is for her to want to live. This way people have of lining-u on the side of the undertaker makes the entire pharmacopoeia look silly. Your little lady has made up her mind that she’s not going to get well. Has she anything on her mind？”
“She—she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples some day.” said Sue. “Paint？ —bosh！ Has she anything on her mind worth thinking twice - aman for instance？”
“A man？” said Sue， with a jew’s-harp twang in her voice. “Is a man worth—but， no， doctor； there is nothing of the kind.”
“Well， it is the weakness， then，” said the doctor. “I will do all that science， so far as it may filter through my efforts， can accomplish. But whenever my patient begins to count the carriages in her funeral procession I subtract 50 per cent from the curative power of medicines. If you will get her to ask one question about the new winter styles in cloak sleeves I will promise you a one-in-five chance for her， instead of one in ten.”
After the doctor had gone Sue went into the workroom and cried a Japanese napkin to a pulp. Then she swaggered into Johnsy’s room with her drawing board， whistling ragtime.
Johnsy lay， scarcely making a ripple under the bedclothes， with her face toward the window. Sue stopped whistling， thinking she was asleep.
She arranged her board and began a pen-and-ink drawing to illustrate a magazine story. Young artists must pave their way to Art by drawing pictures for magazine stories that young authors write to pave their way to Literature.
As Sue was sketching a pair of elegant horseshow riding trousers and a monocle of the figure of the hero， an Idaho cowboy， she heard a low sound， several times repeated. She went quickly to the bedside.
Johnsy’s eyes were open wide. She was looking out the window and counting—counting backward.
