Read Online The Winter of Our Discontent by John Steinbeck - Free Book Online

to but risk it. With care and good advice you don’t have to lose it. Risk isn’t loss. Our people have always been calculated-risk people and they didn’t lose. I’m going to shock you, Ethan. You’re letting down the memory of old Cap’n Hawley. You owe his memory something. Why, he and my daddy owned the Belle-Adair together, one of the last built and finest of all whaling bottoms. Get off your ass, Ethan. You owe the Belle-Adair something you haven’t paid in guts. The hell with the finance company.”
    Ethan coaxed a reluctant piece of cellophane over the gutter’s edge with his broom tip. He said softly, “The Belle-Adair burned to the waterline, sir.”
    “I know she did, but did that stop us? It did not.”
    “She was insured.”
    “Of course she was.”
    “Well, I wasn’t. I saved my house and nothing else.”
    “You’ll have to forget that. You’re brooding on something past. You’ve got to scrape up some courage, some daring. That’s why I said you should invest Mary’s money. I’m trying to help you, Ethan.”
    “Thank you, sir.”
    “We’ll get that apron off you. You owe that to old Cap’n Hawley. He wouldn’t believe it.”
    “I guess he wouldn’t.”
    “That’s the way to talk. We’ll get that apron off.”
    “If it wasn’t for Mary and the children—”
    “Forget them, I tell you—for their own good. There’s some interesting things going to happen here in New Baytown. You can be part of it.”
    “Thank you, sir.”
    “Just let me think about it.”
    “Mr. Morphy says he’s going to work when you close at noon. I’m making him some sandwiches. Want me to make you some?”
    “No thanks. I’m letting Joey do the work. He’s a good man. There’s some property I want to look up. In the County Clerk’s office, that is. Nice and private there from twelve till three. Might be something in that for you. We’ll talk soon. So long.” He took a long first step to miss a crack and crossed the alley entrance to the front door of the First National Bank, and Ethan smiled at his retreating back.
    He finished his sweeping quickly, for people were trickling and fresheting to work now. He set the stands of fresh fruit at the entrance of the store. Then, making sure no one was passing, he removed three stacked cans of dog food and, reaching behind, brought out the grim little bag of currency, replaced the dog food, and, ringing “no sale” on the cash register, distributed the twenties, tens, fives, and one-dollar bills in their places under the small retaining wheels. And in the oaken cups at the front of the cash drawer he segregated the halves, quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies, and slammed the drawer shut. Only a few customers showed up, children sent for a loaf of bread or a carton of milk or a pound of forgotten coffee, little girls with sleep-messy hair.
    Margie Young-Hunt came in, pert-breasted in a salmon sweater. Her tweed skirt clung lovingly in against her thighs and tucked up under her proud fanny, but it was in her eyes, her brown myopic eyes, that Ethan saw what his wife could never see because it wasn’t there when wives were about. This was a predator, a huntress, Artemis for pants. Old Cap’n Hawley called it a “roving eye.” It was in her voice too, a velvet growl that changed to a thin, mellow confidence for wives.
    “Morning, Eth,” Margie said. “What a day for a picnic!”
    “Morning. Want to take a bet you ran out of coffee?”
    “If you guess I ran out of Alka-Seltzer, I’m going to avoid you.”
    “Big night?”
    “In a small way. Traveling-salesman story. A divorced woman’s safe. Brief case of free samples. Guess you’d call him a drummer. Maybe you know him. Name of Bigger or Bogger, travels for B. B. D. and D. Reason I mention it is he said he was coming in to see you.”
    “We buy from Waylands mostly.”
    “Well, maybe Mr. Bugger’s just drumming up business, if he feels better than I do this morning. Say, could you give me a