Moon-Face, and Other Stories. Джек Лондон
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“ ‘This judge, then, is not modelled from life, as one might be led to believe?’
“ ‘No, your Honor.’
“ ‘Ah, I see, merely a type of judicial wickedness?’
“ ‘Nay, more, your Honor,’ I said boldly, ‘an ideal.’
“ ‘Splashed with local color afterward? Ha! Good! And may I venture to ask how much you received for this bit of work?’
“ ‘Thirty dollars, your Honor.’
“ ‘Hum, good!’ And his tone abruptly changed. ‘Young man, local color is a bad thing. I find you guilty of it and sentence you to thirty days’ imprisonment, or, at your pleasure, impose a fine of thirty dollars.’
“ ‘Alas!’ said I, ‘I spent the thirty dollars in riotous living.’
“ ‘And thirty days more for wasting your substance.’
“ ‘Next case!’ said his Honor to the clerk.
“Slim was stunned. ‘Gee!’ he whispered. ‘Gee the push gets ten days and you get sixty. Gee!’ ”
Leith struck a match, lighted his dead cigar, and opened the book on his knees. “Returning to the original conversation, don’t you find, Anak, that though Loria handles the bipartition of the revenues with scrupulous care, he yet omits one important factor, namely—”
“Yes,” I said absently; “yes.”
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