Martin Eden Ch 18 p174

Paul Stought

May 30

But it was only at rare moments that Martin was able to think. The house of thought was closed, its windows boarded up, and he was its shadowy caretaker. He was a shadow. Joe was right. They were both shadows, and this was the unending limbo of toil. Or was it a dream? Sometimes, in the steaming, sizzling heat, as he swung the heavy irons back and forth over the white garments, it came to him that it was a dream. In a short while, or maybe after a thousand years or so, he would awake, in his little room with the ink-stained table, and take up his writing where he had left off the day before. Or maybe that was a dream, too, and the awakening would be the changing of the watches, when he would drop down out of his bunk in the lurching forecastle and go up on deck, under the tropic stars, and take the wheel and feel the cool tradewind blowing through his flesh.	But it wuz oenly at rer moemunts dhat Mortun wuz aebul too thingk. Dhu hous uv thaut wuz kloezd, its windoez baurdud up, and hy wuz its shadoy kertaekur. Hy wuz u shadoe. Joe wuz riet. Dhae wur boeth shadoez, and dhis wuz dhy unending limboe uv toil. Aur wuz it u drym? Sumtiemz, in dhu styming, sizuling hyt, az hy swung dhu hevy iernz bak and faurth oevur dhu whiet gormunts, it kaem too him dhat it wuz u drym. In u shaurt whiel, aur maeby aftur u thouzund yirz aur soe, hy wwd uwaek, in hiz litul room with dhy ingk-staend taebul, and taek up hiz rieting wher hy had left of dhu dae bifaur. Aur maeby dhat wuz u drym, too, and dhy uwaekuning wwd by dhu chaenjing uv dhu wochuz, when hy wwd drop doun out uv hiz bungk in dhu lurching faurkasul and goe up on dek, undur dhu tropik storz, and taek dhu whyl and fyl dhu kool traedwind blo.ing throo hiz flesh.
Came Saturday and its hollow victory at three o'clock.	Kaem Saturdae and its holoe viktury at thry u'klok.
"Guess I'll go down an' get a glass of beer," Joe said, in the queer, monotonous tones that marked his week-end collapse.	"Ges Ie'l goe doun an' get u glas uv bir," Joe sed, in dhu kwir, munotunus toenz dhat morkd hiz wyk- end kulaps.
Martin seemed suddenly to wake up. He opened the kit bag and oiled his wheel, putting graphite on the chain and adjusting the bearings. Joe was halfway down to the saloon when Martin passed by, bending low over the handle-bars, his legs driving the ninety-six gear with rhythmic strength, his face set for seventy miles of road and grade and dust. He slept in Oakland that night, and on Sunday covered the seventy miles back. And on Monday morning, weary, he began the new week's work, but he had kept sober.	Mortun symd sudunly too waek up. Hy oepund dhu kit bag and oild hiz whyl, pwting grafiet on dhu chaen and ujusting dhu beringz, Joe wuz hafwae doun too dhu suloon when Mortun pasd bie, bending loe oevur dhu handul-borz, hiz legz drieving dhu nienty-siks gir with ridhmik strength, hiz faes set faur sevunty mielz uv roed and graed and dust. Hy slept in Oeklund dhat niet, and on Sundae kuvurd dhu sevunty mielz bak. And on Mundae maurning, wiry, hy bigan dhu noo wyk's wurk, but hy had kept soebur.
A fifth week passed, and a sixth, during which he lived and toiled as a machine, with just a spark of something more in him, just a glimmering bit of soul, that compelled him, at each week-end, to scorch off the hundred and forty miles. But this was not rest. It was super-machinelike, and it helped to	U fifth wyk pasd, and u siksth, during which hy livd and toild az u mushyn, with just u spork uv sumthing maur in him, just u glimuring bit uv soel, dhat kumpeld him, at ych wyk-end, too skaurch of dhu hundrud and faurty mielz. But dhis wyk wuz not u rest. It wuz soopur-mushynliek, and it helpd too
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