). Zane Grey was one of his heroes (Зейн Грей был одним из его героев = кумиров): he was damned if he was going to stand any nonsense (он был бы проклят, если он собирался выслушивать: «выдерживать» какую-либо чушь).
"I mean would you put him among the really great (я имею в виду, вы бы поместили его среди действительно великих)?"
"If you want to know, I've never heard of him (если вы хотите знать, я никогда не слышал о нем). What did he write (что он писал)?"
wear ['weq], fur ['fq:], passionate ['pxSqnIt], spurious ['spjuqrIqs], confidence ['kOnfId(q)ns], author ['O:Tq], general ['Gen(q)r(q)l], satisfaction ["sxtIs'fxkS(q)n], mystify ['mIstIfaI], subservient [sqb'sq:vjent], colony ['kOlqnI], mild ['maIld], subtle [sAtl] genius ['Gi:nIqs], affinity [q'fInItI], popular ['pOpjulq], bandit ['bxndIt], revolt [rI'vqult], regard [rI'gRd], spectacles ['spektqklz], entertainer ["entq'teInq], rescue ['reskju:], hero ['hIqrqu], damn [dxm]
Martins missed the first question altogether, but luckily Crabbin filled the gap and answered it satisfactorily. A woman wearing a brown hat and a piece of fur round her throat said with passionate interest: "May I ask Mr. Dexter if he is engaged on a new work?"
"Oh yes ... Yes."
"May I ask the title?"
"The Third Man," Martins said and gained a spurious confidence as the result of taking that hurdle.
"Mr. Dexter, could you tell us what author has chiefly influenced you?"
Martins without thinking said, "Grey." He meant of course the author of Riders of the Purple Sage, and he was pleased to find his reply gave general satisfaction—to all save an elderly Austrian who asked, "Grey. What Grey? I do not know the name."
Martins felt he was safe now and said, "Zane Grey—I don't know any other," and was mystified at the low subservient laughter from the English colony.
Crabbin interposed quickly for the sake of the Austrians: "That is a little joke of Mr. Dexter's. He meant the poet Gray—a gentle, mild subtle genius—one can see the affinity."
"And he is called Zane Grey?"
"That was Mr. Dexter's joke. Zane Grey wrote what we call Westerns—cheap popular novelettes about bandits and cowboys."
"He is not a greater writer?"
"No, no. Far from it," Mr. Crabbin said. "In the strict sense I would not call him a writer at all." Martins told me that he felt the first stirrings of revolt at that statement. He had never regarded himself before as a writer, but Crabbin's self-confidence irritated him—even the way the light flashed back from Crabbin's spectacles seemed an added cause of vexation. Crabbin said, "He was just a popular entertainer."