JК
Diaboliad :: Булгаков Михаил Афанасьевич
Страница: 27 из 30Blood spurted onto the baize from the latter's nose and he rushedthrough an inner door shouting for help.
«Cuck-oo!» piped a forest cuckoo happily, hopping out of a little painted Nuremberg house on the wall.
«Ku-klux-klan!» it cried, turning into a bald head. «We'll tell them how you beat up public servants!»
Korotkov was seized by fury. He swung the chandelier and brought it down on the clock. It replied with thunder and showers of golden arrows. Longjohn hopped out of the clock, turned into a white cockerel with a notice saying «outgoing» and darted through the door. From behind the inner door Dyrkin howled: «Catch him, the rascal,» and heavy footsteps sounded on all sides. Korotkov turned and took to his heels.
XI
PAR FORCE MOVIE AND THE ABYSS
The fat man hopped off the landing into the lift, slid behind the bars and plunged down. Down the huge gnawed-out staircase ran first the fat man's black top hat, followed by the white outgoing cockerel, behind which the chandelier whizzed past about two inches above the cockerel's pointed white head, then came Korotkov, the sixteen-year-old with a revolver in his hand, and some other people, clattering with their studded boots. The staircase resounded with ringing bronze, and doors slammed agitatedly on the landings.
Someone leaned over on the top floor and shouted through a megaphone:
«Which section is moving? You've forgotten the safe!»
A woman's voice below replied:
«Bandits!»
Overtaking the top hat and chandelier, Korotkov was the first to dash through the large front door and, gulping down a huge portion of red-hot air, raced into the street. The white cockerel vanished into thin air, leaving a whiff of sulphur behind it, the black cloak materialised out of nowhere and trailed along beside Korotkov, drawling in a high voice:
«Co-op lads get beaten up, Comrades!»
In Korotkov's path pedestrians were scattering and crawling under gates. Short whistles flared up and went out. Someone careered off, wildly hallooing, and anxious hoarse cries of «Catch him!» lit up. Iron shutters were closed with a clatter, and a lame man sitting on the tram-line squealed:
«It's begun!»
Shots were now flying after Korotkov, frequent and jolly like Christmas crackers, the bullets whining at either side and overhead. Growling like a blacksmith's bellows, Korotkov sped towards a gigantic eleven-storey building at right angles to the street, its main facade in a narrow side alley.
«Cuck-oo!» piped a forest cuckoo happily, hopping out of a little painted Nuremberg house on the wall.
«Ku-klux-klan!» it cried, turning into a bald head. «We'll tell them how you beat up public servants!»
Korotkov was seized by fury. He swung the chandelier and brought it down on the clock. It replied with thunder and showers of golden arrows. Longjohn hopped out of the clock, turned into a white cockerel with a notice saying «outgoing» and darted through the door. From behind the inner door Dyrkin howled: «Catch him, the rascal,» and heavy footsteps sounded on all sides. Korotkov turned and took to his heels.
XI
PAR FORCE MOVIE AND THE ABYSS
The fat man hopped off the landing into the lift, slid behind the bars and plunged down. Down the huge gnawed-out staircase ran first the fat man's black top hat, followed by the white outgoing cockerel, behind which the chandelier whizzed past about two inches above the cockerel's pointed white head, then came Korotkov, the sixteen-year-old with a revolver in his hand, and some other people, clattering with their studded boots. The staircase resounded with ringing bronze, and doors slammed agitatedly on the landings.
Someone leaned over on the top floor and shouted through a megaphone:
«Which section is moving? You've forgotten the safe!»
A woman's voice below replied:
«Bandits!»
Overtaking the top hat and chandelier, Korotkov was the first to dash through the large front door and, gulping down a huge portion of red-hot air, raced into the street. The white cockerel vanished into thin air, leaving a whiff of sulphur behind it, the black cloak materialised out of nowhere and trailed along beside Korotkov, drawling in a high voice:
«Co-op lads get beaten up, Comrades!»
In Korotkov's path pedestrians were scattering and crawling under gates. Short whistles flared up and went out. Someone careered off, wildly hallooing, and anxious hoarse cries of «Catch him!» lit up. Iron shutters were closed with a clatter, and a lame man sitting on the tram-line squealed:
«It's begun!»
Shots were now flying after Korotkov, frequent and jolly like Christmas crackers, the bullets whining at either side and overhead. Growling like a blacksmith's bellows, Korotkov sped towards a gigantic eleven-storey building at right angles to the street, its main facade in a narrow side alley.