A
service of love
Joe Larrabee dreamed of becoming a great
artist. Even when he was six, people in the little western town where he lived
used to say, “ Joe has great talent, he will become a famous artist. “ At
twenty, he left his home town and went to New York
Delia had her dreams too. She played the
piano so well in the little southern village where she lived that her family
said,” she must finish her musical training in New York
Joe and Delia got acquainted at a friend’s
house where some art and music students had gathered to discuss art, music and
the newest plays.
They
fell in love with each other, and in a short time they married.
Mr. And Mrs. Larrabee began their married
life in a little room. But they were happy, for they had their Art, and they
had each other. Joe was painting in the class of the great Magister. Mr.
Magister got a lot of money for his pictures_ and took a lot of money for his
lessons. Delia was taking piano lessons from the great Rosenstock, and he was
taking a lot of money from Delia.
The two young dreamers were very, very
happy while their money lasted. But it didn’t last very long. Soon they didn’t
have enough to pay for their lessons and eat three times a day. When one loves
one’s art no service seems too hard. So Delia decided she must stop taking
lessons and give lessons herself. She began to look for pupils. One evening she
came home very excited, with shining eyes.
“Joe, dear,” she announced happily, “I’ve
got a pupil. General Pinkney_ I mean – his daughter, Clementina. He’s very
rich, and they have a wonderful house. She is so beautiful_ she dresses in white; and she is so nice and
pleasant! I’m going to give her three lessons a week; and just think, Joe! Five
dollars a lesson. Now, dear, don’t look so worried, and let’s have supper. I’ve
bought some very nice fish.”
But Joe refused to listen to
her. “ that’s all right for you Delie, but all wrong for me,” he protested. “
Do you suppose I’m going to let you work while I continue to study Art? No!
Never! I can get a job as a mechanic or clean windows. I’ll get some kind of
work.”
Delia threw her arms around him. “ Joe,
dear, you mustn’t think of leaving Mr. Magister and your Art. I’m not giving up
music. The lessons won’t interfere with my music. While I teach, I learn, and I
can go back to Rosenstock when I get a few more pupils.”
“All right,” said Joe. “ But giving lessons
isn’t Art.”
“When one loves one’s Art, no service seems
too hard,” said Delia.
During the next week, Mr. And Mrs. Larrabee
had breakfast very early. Joe was painting some pictures in Central
Park , and he needed the morning light especially, he said. Time
flies when you love Art, and it was usually seven o’clock in the evening when
Joe returned home. At the end of the week, Delia, very proud but a little
tired, put fifteen dollars on the table.” Sometimes,” she said, “ Clementina is
a very difficult pupil. And she always wears white. I’m tired of seeing the
same colour.”
And then Joe, with the manner
of Monte Cristo, pulled eighteen dollars out of his pocket and put it on the
table too. “I sold one of my pictures to a man from
“I’m so glad you haven’t given up your Art, dear, ”Delia said. ”you are sure
to win! Thirty three dollars! We have never had so much money to spend.”
The next Saturday evening, Joe came home
first. He put his money on the table and then washed what seemed to look like
a lot of paint from his hands. Half an hour late, Delia arrived. There was a
big bandage on her right hand. “ Delie, dear, what has happened? What is the
matter with your hand? Joe asked.
Delia laughed, but not very happily.
“Clementina,”she explained, “asked me to have a lunch with her and the General
after our lesson. She is not very strong, you know, and when she was giving me
some tea, her hand shook and she
spilled a lot of very hot water over my
hand. But General Pinkney bandaged my hand himself. They
were both so sorry. Oh, Joe , did you sell another picture?” She had seen the
money on the table.
“Yes,” said Joe. “to the man from Washington
“ five o’clock, I think, ”said Delia. “ the
iron_the water was very hot. And Clementina cried, and General Pinknry…”
Joe put his arms round Deila . “where
are you working, Dellie ? Tell me ,’’
he asked in a serious voice. Delia was about to say something, but suddenly
tears appeared in her eyes and she began to cry .
“I could not get any pupils,” she said.
“And I didn’t want you to stop taking lessons, so I got a job ironing shirts in the big laundry on Twenty-Fourth Street
‘He
isn’t from Washington
‘It
makes no difference
where he is
from,’’ said Delia.
‘How clever you
are, Joe How did
you guess that
I wasn’t giving
music lessons? ’’
“I
guessed,’’ Joe said,
‘because about five
o’clock this afternoon,
I sent some
oil up to
the ironing-room. They
said a girl
had burned her
hand. You see, dear,
I work as
a mechanic in
that same laundry
on Twenty-Fourth Street.’’
“And
the man from Washington
“Yes,
dear,’’ Joe said. ‘The man
from Washington and
General Pinkney are
both creations of
the same art,
but you can’t
call it painting
or music.’’ And they
both began to
laugh.
“You
know, dear,’’ Joe said. “When
one loves one’s
Art, no service seems…’’
But Delia
stopped him with
her hand on
his mouth. “No,’’ she
said, “just_when one
loves.”
O.HENRY
AFTER
TWENTY YEARS
The policeman walked up and down the street. The time was about 10 o'clock in the evening. But there were very few
people in the streets, as the wind was
bitter and the heavy rain unpleasant. Suddenly the policeman slowed his walk.
In the doorway of a darkened
store he saw a man. As the policeman walked up closer the man said:
- "Everything is all right, officer, I am just
waiting for a friend. It is an appointment
made twenty years ago. It sounds a little strange to you, doesn't it? I'll explain,
if you would like to hear. About twenty years ago there was a small restaurant where the store stands." The man
at the doorway lit his cigar. The light illuminated a pale face with black eyes and a little white scar near
the right eye. There was a large
diamond in his ring.
- "Twenty years ago," said the man, "I
dined here at the restaurant with Jimmy
Wells, my best friend, the finest chap in the world. I was eighteen and Jimmy
was twenty. The next morning I was to start for the West to make my fortune. I couldn't make Jimmy leave New York
- "It sounds very interesting,"
said the policeman, "but you met rather a long time ago. Have you heard from
your friend since then?"
- "Well,, yes, for a time
we corresponded," said the other. But after a year we lost touch with each other,
but I know Jimmy will meet me here if he is alive."
-
"You made a lot of money in the West, didn't you?" asked the
policeman.
-
"Oh yes, I did, you may be sure." The policeman was silent. Then he
said,
- "I hope your friend will
come on time. How long are you going to wait for him?"
-
"I'll give him half an hour at least. So long, officer."
-
"Good night, sir," said the policeman.
Twenty minutes passed and then a tall man in a long
overcoat with the collar turned up over his
ears hurried from the opposite side of the street directly to the waiting man.
-
"Is that you, Jimmy Wells?" asked the man in the doorway.
- "Oh, dear Bob!"
exclaimed the newcomer. "I was sure I would find you here. Well, twenty years is a
long time. How has the West treated you, old man?"
- "Very well. It has given everything I asked for. But you have
changed very much. Jimmy, I never thought
you were so tall."
- "Oh, I grew a little after
I was twenty." "How are you getting on in New York
"Well, I have a
position in one of the city departments. Come on, Bob we'll go to a place I know of, and
have a good long talk about old times." The two men went up the street. When they came up to a store,
brilliant with electric lights, each of them
turned to look at each other's face. The man from the West stopped suddenly.
- "You are not
Jimmy Wells," he said, "twenty years is a long time, but not long enough to change a man's
face."
- "It sometimes changes a good man
into a bad man," said the tall man. "You'll
be arrested in ten minutes, Silky Bob. Go ahead quietly, the police want to have a talk with you," he commanded.
"Now, before we go to the police station, here is a note I was asked to hand you. You may read it here at the
window. It's from Jimmy Wells."
The man from the
West began to read it. The note was rather short. "Bob, I was at the appointed place and time. When you struck
the match to light your cigar I saw it was
the face of the man the police was looking for. I don't know why, but I couldn't arrest you myself, so I went
away and got another man to do the
job. Jimmy."
Beyond the Shadow of the Doubt
Sarah was trembling with excitement. She
was shaking so much that she got her zip stuck and dropped her lipstick down
the loo. It was six-thirty and she was due to be at Jason’s flat in an hour.
She took a deep breath and told herself to be sensible; after all it was only a
dinner date. But the very thought of seeing him set her pulse racing. She
poured herself a quick drink, then checked her hair and make-up for the last
time. Then she rushed out and hailed a passing taxi.
They had met a month earlier at a party.
He had asked her to dance. They ended up spending the whole evening in each
other’s company. Jason was tall and athletic and dressed impeccably. He also
seemed very gentle and considerate; he had driven her home after the party but
only kissed her in a brotherly way. She had just broken up with Kevin- and
Jason was such a pleasant contrast!
Since then, they had met several times-but
always with other people, in restaurants or other parties. She knew she was a
special for him, and after the last party, he had driven her home again. This
time he had kissed her – but not like a brother! He had invited her to supper
at his flat in Bayswater. That night she had hardly slept, she was so excited.
At last she would see him alone on his home ground. They would really got to
know each other-and perhaps…? She told herself to stop fantasizing.
Sarah had been in London
She looked for number 7-
there it was. She was just about to ring
the bell when she looked up at the first floor window. There, silhouetted
against the gauze curtains, she saw the unmistakable outline of a female
figure. And behind it was Jason’s own shadow. The woman was mowing to and fro.
Then she took off some of her clothes. Sarah could hardly believe eyes. She turned,
ran out of the lane and took a taxi home.
The phone rang at nine, at nine-thirty and
at ten. She let it ring. That would teach him a lesson! He never called her
again.
The weeks
that followed were a torture. She avoided going out, in case she met Jason. A
month later she opened a fashion magazine and saw Jason’s handsome face smiling
at her. He was the centerpiece of an article on the latest women’s fashions. He
had won the prize
for the best young fashion designer of the year. The
article mentioned that he worked with his models from his own flat in
Bayswater.
Gossip
Fred Battersby had a fine collection of
married women, and he tried to treat them equally. No favourites. He usually
called round on them once a week, staying perhaps for an hour, trying to pay
exactly the same amount of attention to each one.
He still remembered the day one of
them, Audrey Ball, had stopped him in the street and said: ”I hear you’ve been
to see Ann twice this week, and you haven’t been to see me once!” Of course she
tried to make it sound like a joke, but Fred’s sensitive antennae picked up the
undertones of jealousy. After that, he was always careful to share himself out,
as it were.
So it was that Fred had his regular
round, calling in turn on Audrey and Ann and Judy and Carol and – but it is
unnecessary to list them all: the point is that they were all very fond of
Fred, and always very pleased to see him.
‘Hello, Fred! Come in! I’ve just put
the kettle on. Would you like a cup of tea?’ said another.
‘Ah, Fred, I’m so glad to see you. I
wonder if you’d give me a hand to move this
settee?’ said another.
‘Good morning, Fred. Sorry if I’m not
very cheerful, but I’m worried about my youngest: she’s got a terrible cough,’
said a third.
‘Hello, Fred. How are you? I’m a bit
fed up myself. To tell you the truth, Richard and I have had another row,’
confided a fourth.
And so it
went. Fred was like a counsellor to them. He was a friend, and adviser, a
doctor, a priest and handyman all rolled into one. And Fred loved it. Firstly,
he loved it because he was good at it. Fred lived alone. his wife having died a
year or two before. He was still no more than middle-aged, a tallish man, not
handsome but with a pleasant open face that seemed to encourage people to
confide in him. He was good at it because he was one of those rare men who
actually like women. Of course, most men will tell you, and themselves, that
they like women, but the fact is that most
men feel more relaxed and comfortable in the company of other men. They need
women, certainly, as lovers and mothers and housekeepers and admirers, but on
the whole they do not actually like them -
probably because they do not really understand them. 
This is
where Fred was different. He enjoyed the company of women, and he understood
them. He knew what it was like for married women to look after houses and
husbands and children, serving up perhaps twenty meals a week, nursing the
family through its problems and illnesses, listening patiently while husbands
complained about the boss or the terrible time they had had at work that day.
And all the time, these same women were trying to stay attractive and lively.
Fred understood all this, and did his best to be a good friend to his married
ladies.
“Here you are, Ann. I’ve brought you
some tomatoes from my greenhouse. They’ll put the colour back in your cheeks!”
“Audrey, you’ve had your hair done.
It really suits you!”
“Hello, Jude. You’re looking a bit tired.
Are you sure you’re not overdoing things a bit?”
“That’s a pretty dress, Carol. What?
You made it yourself? I wish I had talent like that.”
He listened to their problems, took
an interest in their children, complimented them on their appearance, tried to
make them feel important. He even flirted with them sometimes in a
light-hearted way that amused them but never offended them. In short he did all
those things that husbands should do, but often forget to do because they are
too busy and too wrapped up in themselves.
So, Ann and
Audrey and Carol and the rest looked forward to a friendly chat, a helping hand
when they needed one, or simply a break from the boring routine of housework.
But Hadley is a small village, and tongues began to wag. The sight of Fred’s
old bike propped up against Ann
Fletcher’s front wall or against the side of Carol Turner’s house for an hour or more ,
when everyone knew he only needed to be there two minutes, started the gossip
among the older village women.
“I always said he was no good.”
“I think it’s a disgrace. She is
married woman with two small children!”
“Her poor husband: he doesn’t even
suspect what’s going on!”
“That Ann Fletcher. Personally, I think
she leads him on, you know, actually encourages him!”
The worst of these gossips was
undoubtedly old Mrs. Somersham. Her husband was not only the manager of the
local bank, but also chairman of Parish Council. She told him about her
suspicions, but in that indirect way which makes gossip seem more like concern
for the welfare of others. He heard one or two comments from other sources and
eventually began to believe the stories about Fred. He thought for a while, and
decided to have a quiet word with one of the husbands. As is always the way
with these things, it was not long before the other husbands were made aware of
the gossip about their wives and the unspeakable Fred Battersby. Well, these
men had their pride, so naturally they were sure that their wives were as
innocent as angels. But it was clear that these innocent angels were in danger
from a widower with a roving eye. So the husband of Carol Turner and Ann
Fletcher and the rest began to get jealous or angry or sulky, and they began to
say unkind things or to drop hints about Fred Battersby in the offhand way that
people have when they don’t want to look foolish but still want to have their
way.
Eventually, the smell of scandal
reached too many noses, and something had to happen. Tired of Mrs. Somersham’s
references to the subject, Mr. Somersham decided to have another quiet word,
this time with his old friend, Porter, who happened two be the managing
director of the insurance company that Fred worked for. Just a quiet word was
enough. Fred lost his job shortly afterwards. He could feel the cold atmosphere
around him and, before long, packed his things and moved to another village
several miles away. Mrs. Somersham clucked with satisfaction, old Somersham
breathed a sigh of relief, the offended husbands relaxed, and peace settled one
more over Hadley.
For a time,
that is. But then, the strangest things began to happen to Fred’s married
ladies. Not long after Fred’s departure,
Ann Fletcher had an affair (a real, serious love affair) with an estate agent
from 
Miss Posie Carrington had begun life in the
small village of Cranberry Corners
“ My boy”, said Mr Goldstein, the manager of
the theatre, when the young man went to him for advice, “take the part if you
can get it. The trouble is Miss Carrington won’t listen to any of my
suggestions. As a matter of fact she has turned down a lot of the best
imitators of a country fellow already, and she says she won’t set foot on the
stage unless her partner is the best that can be found. She was brought up in a
village, you know, she won’t be deceived when a Broadway fellow goes on the
stage with a straw in his hair and calls himself a village boy. So, young man,
if you want to play the part you will have to convince Miss Carrington. Would
you like to try? ” “ I would with your permission,” answered the young man. But
I would like to keep my plans secret for a while.”
Next day Highsmith took the train for Cranberry Corners. He
stayed three days in that small and distant village. Having found out all he
could about Boggs and their neighbours, Highsmith returned to the city…
Miss Posie Carrington used to spend her
evenings at a small restaurant where actors gathered after performances. One
night when Miss Posie was enjoying a late supper in the company of her fellow-
actors, a shy, awkward young man entered the restaurant. It was clear that the
lights and the people made him uncomfortable. He upset one chair, sat in
another one, and turned red at the approach of a waiter.
“ You may fetch me a glass of beer” he
said, in answer to the waiter’s question. He looked around the place and then
seeing Miss Carrington, rose and went to her table with a shining smile.
“How are you, Miss Posie? ” He said. “Don’t
you remember me _Bill Summers _the Summerses that used to live next door to
you” I’ve grown up since you left Cranberry Corners. They still remember you
there. Eliza Perry told me to see you in the city while I was here. You know
Eliza married Benny Stanfield, and she says_”
“ I say”, interrupted Miss Carrington
brightly, “Eliza Perry married. She used to be so stout and plain.” “ Married
in June,” smiled the gossip. “Old Mrs
Blithers sold her place to Captain Spooner; the youngest Waters girl ran
away with a music teacher.”
“Oh,” Miss Carrington cried out. “ Why,
you people, excuse me a while_this is an
old friend of mine _Mr_what was it? Yes,
Mr Summers. Now, Bill, come over here and tell me some more.”
She took him to a vacant table in a corner.
“ I don’t seem to remember any Bill
Summer,” she said thoughtfully, looking straight into the innocent blue eyes of
the young man. “ But I know the Summerses all right, and your face seems
familiar when I come to think of it. There aren’t many changes in the old
village, are there? Have you seen any of my people?
And then Highsmith decided to show Miss
Posie his abilities as a tragic actor.
“ Miss Posie, said Bill Summers, “ I was at
your people’s house just two or three days ago. No there are not many changes
to speak of. And yet it doesn’t look the same place that it used to be.”
“How’s Ma?” asked Miss Carrington.
“ She was sitting by the front door when I
saw her last,” said Bill. “ She is older than she was, Miss Posie. But
everything in the house looked just the same.
your ma asked me to sit down.
“ William,” said she. “ Posie went away down that road and something tells
me that she will come back that way again when she gets tired of the world and
begins to think about her old mother. She’s always been a sensible girl.”
Miss Carrington looked uncomfortable.
“ Well, she said, “ I am really very glad to
have seen you, Bill. Come round and see me at the hotel before you leave the
city.”
After she had left, Highsmith, still in his
make- up, went up to Goldstein.
“ An excellent idea, wasn’t it?” said the
smiling actor. The part is mine, don’t you think? The little lady never once
guessed.”
“ I didn’t hear your conversation,” said
Goldstein,” But your make-up and acting were perfect. Here is to your success.
You’d better visit Miss Carrington tomorrow and see how she feels about you.”
At 11.45 the next morning Highsmith,
handsome and dressed in the latest fashion,
sent up his card to Miss Carrington at her hotel.
He was shown up and received by the
actress’s French maid.
“ I’m sorry,” said the maid, “ but I’m to say
this to everybody. Miss Carrington has cancelled all engagements on the stage
and has returned to live in that _ what do you call that place?_Cranberry
Corners!”
O.Henry
-
Miriam sat at the window, looking
down at the street .It was Friday evening. People were already leaving their offices
and the shops were closing. Soon she would be alone again- as usual.
She imagined how these people would spend
their evening- in restaurants, bars, dance halls- enjoying themselves. She had
never experienced these pleasures in all her twenty-five years on earth. Her
mind drifted…if only someone would invite her out, even if it was only once.
But she knew it was impossible. She was not pretty, she knew that. She was shy
and she had no money for nice clothes or shoes. All she could afford was the rent
on this miserable flat and her daily necessities.
Suddenly the doorbell rang. Nervously, she
went downstairs to answer it. The young man on the doorstep told her that he
had some important news for her. She felt uneasy but he looked so honest – and so handsome, that she asked him in.
She made him coffee while he explained that
he was a lawyer. Her uncle, who had emigrated to Australia
Harry helped her to deal with all the
legal papers. He arranged for her to buy the luxury flat in Bayswater. He
entertained her. They went to restaurants, West end theatre concerts, even to
wild parties.
Three months later they were married and
move to the big house he had made her buy in Hampstead. For a while she was
blissfully happy. Then Harry changed. He came back late. They went out together
less often. Sometimes the phone would ring and unknown female voices would ask
for Harry. When she asked him what was wrong, he would fly into a rage and
leave the house.
One afternoon, the police came round. It
seemed Harry was involved in a bank fraud. The weeks which followed were a
nightmare. She sold the flat in Bayswater to pay for a lawyer. When he was
found guilty, she sold the house in Hampstead. She moved back into the small
flat in Hove . Her adventure was over.
Miriam sat at the window, looking down at
the street. It was Friday evening. People were already leaving their offices
and the shops were closing. Soon she would be alone again – as usual.
But tomorrow would be different. She would
catch the six o’clock train to London
It was a damp, grey morning. She stood
opposite the prison gates, waiting. The prison clock struck the half hour. The
small door in the big metal gates swung open, and Harry emerged into freedom.
He looked about him, then started across the street towards her. At last
she thought, everything would be all
right again.
It was only when then that she noticed the
red sports car. A blonde lady in a fur coat, was seated at the wheel. Harry
jumped in beside the lady and gave her a resounding kiss. She accelerated and the car disappeared round the
corner.
Miriam took out the air tickets and slowly
tore them into small pieces. Then she walked away.
Mr. know-All
(after S. Maugham)
The war had just
finished and the passenger traffic in the ocean-going liners was heavy.
Accommodation was hard to get. You could not hope for a cabin to yourself and I
was thankful to be given one in which there were only two berths. But when I
was told the name of my companion I didn’t like the sound of it _Mr. Kelada. It
was bad enough to share a cabin with anyone, but I should have looked upon it
with less dismay if my fellow-passenger’s name had been Smith or Brown.
When I went on board Mr Kelada’s luggage
was already in the cabin. I didn’t like the look of it; there were too many
labels on the suitcases and the wardrobe trunk was too big.
I made my way into the smoking room. I
called for a pack of cards and began to play patience. I had scarcely started
before a man came up to me and asked me if he was right in thinking my name was
so- and- so. “I’m Mr. Kelada,” he added with a smile and sat down.
“Oh, yes, we’re sharing a cabin, I think.”
“Bit of luck, I call it. You never know who
you’re going to be put in with. I was jolly glad when I heard you were English.
I’m all for us English sticking together when we’re abroad.”
I blinked.
“Are you English?” I asked, perhaps
tactlessly.
“British to the backbone, that’s what I
am.” To prove it, Mr. Kelada took out of his pocket a passport and waved it
under my nose.
I not only shared a cabin with him and ate
three meals a day at the same table, but I couldn’t walk round the deck without
his joining me. It was impossible to snub him. It never occurred to him that he
was not wanted. In your own house you might have kicked him downstairs and
slammed the door in his face,showing him that he was not a welcome visitor.
He was a good mixer, and in three
days knew everyone on board. He was everywhere and always. He was certainly the
best- hated man in the ship. We called him Mr. Know-All, even to his face. He
took it as a compliment. He knew everything better than anybody else. The
possibility that he could be mistaken never occurred to him. He was the chap
who knew.
We sat at the doctor’s table. Mr.
Kelada would certainly have had it all his own way but for a man called Ramsey,
who also sat there. He was as dogmatic as Mr. Kelada.
Ramsay was a great heavy fellow from the Middle West . He was in the American Consular Service and
now on his way back to resume his post in Japan ,
having been on a flying visit to New
York
Mrs. Ramsay was a very pretty little thing,
with pleasant manners and a sense of humor. The Consular Service is ill paid,
and she was dressed always very simply; but she knew how to wear her clothes. I
should not have paid any particular attention to her but for her modesty. It
shone in her like a flower on a coat.
One evening at dinner the conversation by
chance drifted to the subject of pearls. Mr. Kelada told us all that was to be
known about pearls. But when Ramsay said something that stung him, he shouted:
“Well, I ought to know what I’m talking about. I’m in the trade and I know all
the best pearls in the world.”
Then he looked round the table and pointed
to the chain that Mrs. Ramsay wore: “ You take my word for it, Mrs. Ramsey,
that chain you’re wearing will never be worth a cent than it is now.”
Mrs. Ramsay in her modest way flushed a
little and slipped the chain inside her dress. Ramsay leaned forward. He gave
us all a look and a smile flickered in his eyes.
“ That’s a pretty chain of Mrs. Ramsay’s,
isn’t it? I didn’t buy it myself, of course. I’d be interested to know how much
you think it costs.”
“ If it was bought on Fifth Avenue
Ramsay smiled grimly. “You’ll be surprised
to hear that Mrs. Ramsay bought that string at a department store the day
before we left New York
Mr. Kelada flushed. “Rot. It’s not only
real, but it’s as fine as a string for its size as I’ve ever seen.”
“Will you bet on it? I’ll bet you a hundred dollars it’s imitation.”
“Done.”
Mrs. Ramsay had a little smile on her lips.
She said: “But how can it be proved? It’s only my word against Mr. Kelada’s.”
“Let me look at the chain, and if it’s imitation I’ll tell you quickly
enough,” said Mr. Kelada.
“ Take it off, my dear.” Ramsay jumped up.” I’ll undo it. ”
He handed the chain to Mr. Kelada. The man
took a magnifying glass from his pocket and closely examined it. A smile of
triumph spread over his smooth face. He handed back the chain. He was about to
speak. Suddenly he caught the sight of Mrs. Ramsay’s face. It was so white that
she looked as though she were about to faint. She was staring at him with wide
and terrified eyes. They held a desperate appeal.
Mr. Kelada stopped with his mouth open. He
flushed deeply. You could almost see the effort he was making over himself.
“I was mistaken,” he said. “It’s a very good imitation. And I think
eighteen dollars is just about as much
as the damned thing is worth.”
He took out
his pocket-book and from it a hundred-dollar note. He handed it to
Ramsay without a word.
“Perhaps that’ll teach you not to be so
cocksure another time, my friend,” said Ramsay as he took the note.
I noticed that MR. Kelada’s hands were
trembling.
Next morning I got up and began to shave.
Mr. Kelada lay on his bed smoking a cigarette. Suddenly there was a small
scraping sound and I saw a letter pushed under the door. I picked up the letter
and saw it was addressed to Max Kelada. The name was written in block letters.
I handed it to him.
“Who is this from?” he opened it.
”Oh” , he took out of the envelope, not a letter, but a hundred-dollar
note. He looked at me and again reddened. He tore the envelope into little bits
and asked me to throw them out of the port-hole.
I did as he asked, and then looked at him
with a smile.
“If I had a pretty little wife I shouldn’t
let her spend a year in New York while I
stayed in Japan
At that moment I did not entirely dislike
Mr. Kelada.
CINDERELLA
NO STORY
O.
Henry
I was doing work on a newspaper.
One day
Tripp came in and leaned on my table. Tripp was something in the mechanical
department. He was about twenty-five and looked forty. Half of his face was
covered with short, curly red whiskers that looked like a door-mat. He was pale
and unhealthy and miserable and was always borrowing sums of money from
twenty-five cents to a dollar. One dollar was his limit. When he leaned on my
table he held one hand with the other to keep both from shaking. Whisky.
"Well, Tripp," said I, looking up at him rather
impatiently, "how goes it?" He was looking more miserable than I had
ever seen him.
"Have you got a dollar?" asked Tripp looking at
me with his dog-like eves.
That day I had managed to get five dollars for my Sunday
story. "I have," said I; and again I said, "I have," more
loudly, "and four besides. And I had hard work getting them. And I need
them all."
"I don't want to borrow any," said Tripp, "I
thought you'd-like to get a good story. I've got a really fine one for you.
It'll probably cost you a dollar or two to get the stuff. I don't want
anything out of it myself."
"What is the story?" I asked.
"It's girl. A beauty. She has lived all her life on
Long Island and never saw New York
City Thirty-fourth Street New York City New York
"That's no story," said I. "Every ferry-boat
brings or takes away girls from Long Island ."
Tripp looked disappointed. "Can't you see what an
amazing story it would make? You ought to get fifteen dollars for it. And it'll
cost you only four, so you'll make a profit of eleven dollars."
"How will it cost me four dollars?" I asked suspiciously.
"One dollar to the landlady and two dollars to pay the
girl's fare back home."
"And the fourth?" I inquired.
''One dollar tome said Tripp. "Don't you see," he
insisted, that the girl has got to get back home today?"
And then I began to feel what is known as the sense of
duty. In a kind of cold anger I put on my coat and hat. But I swore to myself
that Tripp would not get the dollar.
Tripp took me in a street car to the boarding-house. I paid
the fares.
In a dim parlour a girl sat crying quietly and eating
candy out of a paper bag. She was a real beauty. Crying only made her eyes
brighter.
"My friend, Mr. Chalmers. He is a reporter," said
Tripp "and he will tell you, Miss Lowery, what's best to do."
I felt ashamed of being introduced as Tripp's friend in the
presence of such beauty. "Why—er Miss Lowery," I began feeling
terribly awkward, "will you tell me the circumstances of the case?"
"Oh," said Miss Lowery; "there aren't any
circumstances, really. You see, everything is fixed for me to marry Hiram Dodd
next Thursday. He's got one of the best farms on the Island .
But last night I got to thinking about G—George—"
"You see, I can't help it. George and I loved each
other since we were children. Four years ago he went to the city. He said he
was going to be a policeman or a railroad president or something. And then he
was coming back for me. But I never heard from him any more. And I—I—liked
him."
"Now, Miss Lowery," broke in Tripp, "you
like this young man, Dodd, don't you? He's all right, and good to you, isn't
he?"
"Of course I like him. And of course he's good to me.
He's promised me an automobile and a motor-boat. But somehow I couldn't help
thinking about George. Something must have happened to him or he would have
written. On the day he left, he got a hammer and a chisel and cut a cent into
two pieces. I took one piece and he took the other, and we promised to be true
to each other and always keep the pieces till we saw each other again. I've got
mine at home. I guess I was silly to come here. I never realized what a big
place it is."
Tripp broke in with an awkward little laugh. "Oh, the
boys from the country forget a lot when they come to the city. He may have met
another girl or something. You go back home, and you'll be all right."
In the end we persuaded Miss Lowery to go back home. The
three of us then hurried to the ferry, and there I found the price of the
ticket to be but a dollar and eighty cents. I bought one, and a red, red rose
with the twenty cents for Miss Lowery. We saw her aboard her ferry-boat and
stood watching her wave her handkerchief at us. And then Tripp and I faced each
other.
"Can't you get a story out of it?" he asked.
"Some sort of a story?"
"Not a line," said I.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. There was
disappointment in his tone. Tripp unbuttoned his shabby coat and reach for
something that had once been a handkerchief. As he did so I saw something
shining on his cheap watch-chain. It was the half of a silver cent that had
been cut in halves with a chisel.
"What?!" I exclaimed looking at him in amazement.
"Oh yes," he replied. "George Brown, or
Tripp. What's the use?"
I took out a dollar from my pocket and
unhesitatingly laid it in his hand.
Orpheus and Eurydice
Promises,
Promises
As Tina ran into the restaurant on the hottest
day of summer, she looked at her watch. The most important meeting of her
life-and she was late. The head waiter appeared and looked at the cool,
beautiful young woman with shoulder length blonde hair, who said, “I’m Tina
Bailey. Mr. James Radley is expecting me.”
They walked across the restaurant to a table
where two men and a pretty, dark haired woman were sitting. A short, rather
bald little man stood up. So this was the millionaire owner of hotels and
department stores all over the world. “Miss Bailey. I’m delightful to meet
you,” he said.
“
Thank you for inviting me to Los
Angeles
“Miss Bailey, meet Pierre Paloma and his
assistant Nevenka,” said Radley. “ Waiter, bring us some caviar and champagne.”
Pierre Paloma, Tina thought, the famous fasion designer. Why was he here?
Paloma was a tall man with long black hair and
the deepest blue eyes she had ever seen. “Enchante, Miss Bailey, we’ve heard a
lot about you,” he said and smiled. Nevenka said nothing.
“I expect you would kike to show us your work,
Miss Bailey,” said Radley.
“That’s
why I’m here,” replied Tina and gave him her latest designs. But it was Paloma
who took them and started to look at the drawings, so full of colour and light
that the clothes looked as if they were dancing across the page. Radley was
asking Tina about herself, but she wasn’t listening. She was watching Paloma.
Finally Paloma put the designs
down, looked at Tina and then at Radley. “This woman has great talent. Her
designs must be seen, Radley.” He looked at her again and said, “You’ll be
famous all over the world, I promise.” Radley raised his glass. Nevenka sat
there without smiling.
It was midnight, but Tina was
still in her studio at work. It was three months since the meeting with Radley
and Paloma, and nothing had happened since then. She thought about meeting.
“I’ll send you the money to make your dresses,”
Radley had said as they were leaving. “We’ll have the fashion show in Smeralda
next spring.”
Tina was delighted. Smeralda was the biggest
department store in Milan
Then, while Nevenka was out of the room for a
moment, Paloma had said quietly, ”I’ll be in London
She was surprised but very pleased. Then
Nevenka came back and he changed the subject.
But since that day in LA, silence! Promises,
promises, she thought.
Suddenly the phone rang. She picked it up.
“Hi, Tina. This is Pierre, Pierre Paloma. Do
you remember?
Tina’s heart stopped. Did she remember!
“I’m in London
Tina hesitated, “I’m very busy…” but she
suddenly remembered she was doing nothing on Saturday.
They spent a wonderful autumn day together in
the Sussex
The sun was going down as they walked along the
beach.
Suddenly Tina asked, “Pierre
Tina was going to say,”Oh, promises, promises!”
when he kissed her once on the lips, and then once more.
The dressed should have been there on Thursday
night. It was now Friday morning and the show was going to start at midday.
Tina rang Radley in Tokio, but he couldn’t help
her. She sat in her hotel room, wondering what had happened to her dresses. She
was sure the show was going to be a disaster. She packed her bag ready to
leave. She walked over to Smeralda, but her dresses had not arrived.
Suddenly a van drew up. The driver, who was
wearing dark glasses, got out. “I’ve got the dresses, Miss Bailey.”
“Oh,
thank you so much!” she said. She was so relieved that she kissed him.
In the passenger seat was a woman with her
hands tied up. It was Nevenka.
The tall man took off his glasses. It
was
“Oh, Pierre
He pointed to Nevenka. “She liked your dresses
so much that she wanted to keep them all. He took her by the arm and led her
towards a room full of music and lights and people.
He turned to her and she looked into his deep
blue eyes again.
He kissed her and said, “you see? I always keep
my promises.”
Read the following text and
try to solve the mystery.
At
11:22 p.m. on January 7, 1999, Ms. Jane Webb called the Toronto
To
the policemen's surprise, the door was partly open. They entered the
house and Ms. Webb directed the policemen to the study, which was down the
corridor, on the right. The door of the study was also open, and they
could see a man's body on the floor near the desk. They realized immediately
that he was dead. There was a small round hole in his forehead, just
above his right eye, and a gun lay on the floor next to his right hand.
The
policemen looked around but did not touch anything. They then left the
room and told Ms. Webb to follow them outside. One of the policemen told
her that she was a very important witness and asked her to stay in the house
until someone came to interview her. He then called the homicide division
and gave them the address.
Inspector
Coderre and a team of experts arrived fifteen minutes later. The
investigation began at once and Inspector Coderre checked every room in the
house before he was satisfied.
It
was almost 2 a.m. when he finally rang the doorbell at Ms. Webb's home and
asked to speak to her. She offered him a cup of coffee which he
gratefully accepted. He sat down at the kitchen table and while the
coffee was brewing, she told him what had happened.
`I
was sitting in this very room, drinking a cup of cocoa like I do every night
before I go to bed. Suddenly, the light came on in Mr. James's study and
through the window I saw him enter the room and walk over to his desk.
Look! You can see the study from here and you can see everything that is
happening inside.' Inspector Coderre stared out of the kitchen window and
realized that she was absolutely right. The study was well lit and he
could see his colleagues move around inside as they continued their
investigation.
Ms.
Webb continued with her story. `I saw Mr. James open a drawer of the desk
and take out a gun. I was so shocked I didn't react at first. As I
looked, I saw him point the gun at his head and pull the trigger.'
She
was obviously upset but she continued her account of the terrible event.
`As you can imagine, I was in shock, but I realized that I had to do
something, although I knew deep down that it was too late.' `So what did
you do?' asked the inspector. `I ran over to his house and I checked the
front door. It was locked. I tried the back door. It too was
locked. I went around the house and checked all the windows. They
were all locked. So I took a stone and broke a basement window and
climbed in. It was stupid under the circumstances, but I didn't want to
break any of the big windows.'
The
inspector was very sympathetic and told her that it was very natural to not
want to damage somebody's property. `We noticed the broken window.
It was very small. You're lucky you didn't cut yourself as you
climbed through it.' Ms. Webb nodded in agreement and continued her
story. `I was in this very dark basement, but since our houses are very
similar I quickly found the light switch. Then I went up the stairs to
the main floor. I rushed immediately to the study and I didn't hesitate.
I opened the door, switched on the light and ran to the body to see if I
could do anything for Mr. James. Of course, as you saw, there was nothing
I could do for him. Then I left the house by the front door and came over
here to call the police. I left the front door partly open so they could
just walk in and see what had happened.'
Now
that she had finished her story, she began to tremble. `I'm sorry,' she
explained, `You see, he was more than a good neighbor to me. He was
also my boss. I work at his company as his accountant, and I know there
was a reason for his despair. The company was going bankrupt, and I feel
responsible for his suicide because I was the one who gave him the bad news,
just this morning, in fact.'
The
inspector looked at her but there was little sympathy in his eyes. He got
up from his chair and headed towards the front door. As he was picking up
his overcoat, he turned to her and said, in a very cold voice, `I think
you will have to come down to police headquarters with me. There are a
few small details that don't seem to make sense.'
Why
isn't Inspector Coderre satisfied with Ms. Webb's version of the event?
Sweet Coffee
He met her on a party, she was so outstanding, many
guys chasing after her, while he was so normal, nobody paid attention to him.
At the end of the party, he invited her to have coffee
with him, she was surprised, but due to polite, she promised.
They sat in a nice coffee shop, he was too nervous to
say anything, she felt uncomfortable, she thought, …please, let me back home..
Suddenly he asked the waiter: “would you please give me some salt? I'd
like to put it in my coffee”. Everybody stared at him, so strange! His face
turned red, but, still he put the salt in his coffee and drank it.
She asked him curiously: “why you have this hobby?”
He replied: “when I was a little boy, I was living
near the sea, I like playing in the sea, I could felt the taste of the sea,
salty and bite, just like the taste of the salty coffee. Now every time I have
the salty coffee, I think of my childhood, think of my hometown, I miss my
hometown so much, I miss my parents who’re still living there.” Saying that,
tears filled his eyes.
She was deeply touched. That's his true feeling, from
the bottom of his heart. A man who can tell out he is homesick, he must be a
man who loves home, cares about home, has responsibility of home..
Then she also started to talk, talked about her
faraway hometown, her childhood, her family. That was a really nice talk, also
a beautiful beginning of their story.
They continue to date. She found actually he was a man
who meets all her demands: he was tolerance, kind hearted, warm, careful...he
was such a good guy but she almost missed him!
Thanks to his salty coffee!
Then the story was just like every beautiful love
story: the princess married to the prince, then they were living the happy
life...And, every time she made coffee for him, she put some salt in it, as she
knew that's the way he liked.
After
40 years, he passed away, left her a letter which said:
"My
dearest, please forgive me, forgive my whole life lie. This was the only lie I
said to you----the salty coffee. Remember the first time we dated? I was so
nervous at that time, actually I wanted some sugar, but I said salt. It was hard
for me to change so I just went ahead. "
"I
never thought that could be the start of our communication! I tried to tell you
the truth many times in my life, but I was too afraid to do that, as I have
promised not to lie to you for anything..Now I'm dying, I am afraid of nothing
so I tell you the truth: I don't like the salty coffee, what a strange bad
taste..but I have the salty coffee for my whole life since I knew you, never
feel sorry for anything I do for you."
"Having
you with me is my biggest happiness for my whole life. If I can live for the
second time, I still want to know you and have you as my whole life wife, even
though I have to drink the salty coffee again."
Her
tears made the letter totally wet. Someday, someone asked her: “What's the
taste of salty coffee?”
She
replied. “It's sweet.”
The Adventure Of My Aunt
Washington
Irving
My aunt was a big woman, very tall, with a strong
mind and will.
She was what you may call a very manly woman. My uncle was a thin, small man,
very weak, with no will at all. He was no match for my aunt. From the day of their marriage
he began to grow
smaller and weaker. His wife's powerful mind was too much for him; it undermined
his health, and very soon he fell ill.
My
aunt took all possible care of him; half the doctors in town visited him and
prescribed medicine for him enough to cure a whole hospital. She made him take all the
medicines prescribed by the doctors, but all was in vain. My uncle grew worse and worse, and one day she
found him dead.
My
aunt was very much upset by the death of her poor dear husband. Perhaps now
she was sorry that she had made him take so much medicine and felt, perhaps, that he
was the victim of her kindness. Anyhow, she did all that a widow could do to honour his memory. She
spent very much money on her mourning dress, she wore a miniature of him about her neck as
large as a
small clock; and she had a full-length portrait of him always hanging in her bedroom.
All the world praised her conduct. "A woman who did so much to honour the memory of one
husband, deserves
soon to get another," said my aunt's friends.
Some time
passed, and my aunt decided to move to Derbyshire where she had a big country house. The house
stood in a lonely,
wild part of the country among the grey Derbyshire hills. The servants, most of
whom came with my aunt from town, did not like the sad-looking old place. They were
afraid to walk alone about its
half-empty black-looking rooms. My aunt herself seemed to be struck with the lonely appearance of her house. Before she went to bed, therefore, she herself
examined the doors and the windows
and locked them with her own hands. Then she carried the keys from the house together with a little box of money and
jewels, to her own room. She always saw to all things herself.
One
evening, after she had sent away her maid, she sat by her toilet-table arranging
her hair. For, in spite of her sorrow for my uncle, she still cared very much about her
appearance. She sat for a little while looking at her face in the glass first on one side, then on the other.
As she looked, she thought of her old friend, a rich gentleman of the neighbourhood, who
had visited her
that day and whom she had known since her girlhood.
All
of a sudden, she thought she heard something move behind her. She looked
round quickly, but there was nothing to be seen. Nothing but the painted portrait of her
poor dear husband on the wall behind her. She gave a heavy sigh to his memory as she always did
whenever she spoke of him in company, and went on arranging her hair. Her sigh was
re-echoed. She looked round again, but no one was to be seen. "Oh, it is only the wind," she
thought and went on putting her hair in papers, but her eyes were still fixed on her own
reflection and the reflection of her husband's portrait in the looking-glass. Suddenly it seemed to her
that in the glass she saw one of the eyes of the portrait move. It gave her a shock. "I
must make sure," she thought and moved the candle so that the light fell on
the eye in
the glass. Now she was sure that it moved. But not only that, it seemed to give her a
wink exactly as her husband used to do when he was living. Now my aunt got really
frightened... Her heart began to beat fast. She suddenly remembered all the fright-full stories about
ghosts and criminals that she had heard.
But
her fear soon was over. Next moment, my aunt who, as I have said, had a
remarkably strong will, became calm. She went on arranging her hair. She even sang her favourite
song in a low voice and did not make a single false note. She again moved the candle and while moving it she
overturned her workbox. Then she took the candle and began without any hurry to pick up
the articles one by one from the floor. She picked up something near the door, then opened the door, looked
for a moment into the corridor as if in doubt whether to go and then walked quickly out.
She hurried down the stairs and ordered the
servants to arm themselves with anything they could find. She herself caught a red-hot poker and,
followed by her frightened servants, returned almost at once. They entered the
room. All was still and exactly in the same order as when she had left it. They
approached the portrait of my uncle. "Pull down that picture," ordered my
aunt.
A heavy sigh
was heard from the portrait. The servants stepped
back in fear. "Pull it down at once," cried my aunt impatiently. The picture was pulled down, and from a
hiding-place behind it, they dragged
out a big, black-bearded fellow with a knife as long as my arm, but trembling
with fear from head to foot. He
confessed that he had stolen into my aunt's room to get her box of money and jewels, when all the
house was asleep. He had once been a
servant in the house and before my aunt's arrival had helped to put the house in order. He had noticed the hiding-place when the portrait had been put
up. In order to see what was going on
in the room he had made a hole in one of the eyes of the portrait.
My
aunt did not send for the police. She could do very well without them: she liked
to take the law into her own hands. She had her own ideas of cleanliness also. She
ordered the servants to draw the man through the horse-pond in order to wash
away his crimes,
and then to dry him well with a wooden "towel".
But
though my aunt was a very brave woman, this adventure was too much even for
her. She often used to say: "It is most unpleasant for a woman to live alone in the
country." Soon after she gave her hand to the rich gentleman of the
neighbourhood.
The Butler
By Roald Dahl
As SOON AS GEORGE CLEAVER had made his first million, he and MIS deaver
moved out of their small suburban vil1a into an elegant London
But these dinners never seemed quite to come off. There was no
animation, no spark to set the convesation alight, no style at all. Yet the
food was superb and the service faultless.
“What’s
wrong with our parties, Tibbs?” Mr deaver said to the butler. “Why don't nobody
never loosen up and let themselves go?”
Tibbs
inclined his head to one side and looked at the ceiling. “I hope, sir, you will
not be offended if I offer a small suggestion.” “What is it?”
“It's the wine, sir.”
“What about the wine?”
“Well sir,
Monsieur Estragon serves superb food. Superb food should be accompanied by superb
wine. But you serve them a cheap and very odious Spanish red.”
“Then why in heaven's name didn't you say so
before, you twit?”cried :Mr deaver. “I'm not short of money. I'll give them the
best flipping wine in the world if that's what they want! What is the
best wine in the world?”
“Claret, sir,” the butler replied, “from the
greatest chateaur in Bordeaux
“Buy them all” said Mr Cleaver.
'Fill the flipping cellar from top to bottom!”
“I can
try, sir,” the butler said. “But wines like these are extremely rare and cost a
fortune.”
“I don't give a hoot what they cost!” said Mr
deaver. “Just go out and get them!”
That was easier said than done. Nowhere in England or in France
In due course, Mr Cleaver came to regard
himself as an expert on wine, and inevitably he turned into a colossal bore.
“Ladies and gentleman ,” he would announcea at dinner, holding up his glass, “
this is a Margaux”29! The greatest year of the century! Fantastic bouquet!
Smells of cowslips! And notice especially the after taste and how the tiny
trace of tanning gives it that glorious astringent quality! Terrific, aren’t
it?”
The guests would nod and sip and mumble a
few praises, but that was all.
“What’s the matter with the silly twerps?”
Mr cleaver said to tibbs afrter this had gone on for some time. Don’t none of
them appreciate a great wine?”
The butler laid his head to one side and
gazed upward. “I think they would appreciate it ,sir,” he said, “ if they were
able to taste it. But they can’t.”
“What the heck do you mean, they can’t
taste it?”
I believe, sir, that you have instructed
Monsieur Estragon to put liberal quantities of vinegar in the salad- dressing.”
“What’s wrong
with that? I like vinegar.”
“Vinegar ,” the butler said, “is the enemy
of vine. It destroys the palate. The dressing should be made of pure olive oil
and a little lemon juice. Nothing else.”
“Hogwash!” said Mr Cleaver.
“As you wish, sir.”
“ I’ll say it again, Tibbs. You’re talking
hogwash. The vinegar doesn’t spoil my palate one bit.”
“You are very fortunate,
sir,” the butler murmured, backing out of the room.
That night at dinner, the host began to mock his butler in front of the
guests. “Mister Tibbs, he said, “has been trying to tell me I can't taste my
wine if I put vinegar in the salad-dressing. Right, Tibbs?”
“Yes, sir,” Tibbs replied gravely.
“And I told him hogwash. Didn't I, Tibbs?”
“Yes, sir.”
“This wine,”
Mr Cleaver went on raising his glass, “tastes to me exactly like a Chateau
Lafite 45, and what's more it is a Chateau Lafite 45.”
Tibbs, the butler, stood very still near the
sideboard. His face pale. “If you'll forgive me, sir,” he said,”that is not a
Lafite '45.
Mr deaver swung round in his chair and stared at the butler. “What the
heck d'you mean.” he said. “There ‘s the empty bottles beside you to prove it!'
These great clarets, being old and full of
sediment, were always decanted by Tibbs before dinner. They were served in
cut-glass decanters, while the empty bottles, as is the custom, were placed on
the sideboard. Right now, two empty bottles of Lafite '45 were standing on the
sideboard for all to see.
“The wine you are drinking, sir, the butler
said quietly, “happens to be that cheap and rather odious Spanish red.”
Mr Cleaver looked at the wine
in his glass, then at the butler. The blood was Coming to his face now, his
skin was turning scarlet. “You're lying Tibbs!” he said.
“No sir, I'm not lying.” the
butler said. “As a matter of fact, I have never served you any other wine but
Spanish red since I've been here. It seemed to suit you very well.”
“I don't believe him!” Mr Cleaver
cried out to his guests. “The man's gone mad.”
“Great wines.” the butler said, “should be
treated with reverence. It is bad enough to destroy the palate with three or
four cocktails before dinner, as you people do, but when you slosh vinegar over
your food into the bargain, then you might just as well be drinking dishwater.”
Ten outraged faces around the
table stared at the butler. He had caught them off balance. They were
speechless.
“This,” the butler said,
reaching out and touching one of the empty bottles lovingly with his fingers,
“this is the last of the forty-fives. The twenty-nines have already been
finished. But they were glorious wines. Monsieur Estragon and I enjoyed them
immensely.”
The butler bowed and walked quite slowly from
the room. He crossed the hall and went out of the front door of the house into
the street where Monseur Estragon was already loading their suitcases into the
boot of the small car, which they owned together.
THE DINNER PARTY
After Nicolas
Monsarrat
Let me tell you about a
problem, which put my uncle Octavian in a difficult position thirty years ago.
Thirty years ago I myself was fifteen. My uncle
Octavian was then a rich man in the best
part of his life and his house at the sea was a meeting place of rich people.
He was a hospitable and most pleasant man - until January 3, 1925.
There was nothing special about that day, in the life
of my uncle Octavian, except that it was his fifty-fifth birthday. As usual on
such a day, he was giving a dinner party, a party for twelve people. All of
them were old friends. I was staying with my uncle at the beautiful house near
the sea and on that happy day my uncle invited me to dinner. I was glad to be
in such company where there were two rich ladies and their husbands, a
newspaper owner and his beautiful American wife, a minister of France, a
statesman of Germany
At that age, on holiday from school, you will understand that
I was very glad, even today, thirty years later, I can tell you that the
company was very good. And I tell you that they were all old and close friends
of my uncle Octavian.
Towards the end of that wonderful dinner when the servants
had left, my uncle turned to the princess to see a wonderful diamond ring on
her hand. I remember that the diamond in her ring shone in the light as she
turned her hand towards my uncle.
Across the table, the newspaper owner said: "May I also
have a look at it?" Then she took off the ring and gave it to him.
"It was my grandmother's ring", she said. "I have not worn it
for many years".
Everybody in the room wanted to see the ring. The ring was
passed from hand to hand. For a moment it stayed in my own hand. Then I passed
it on to my neighbour. I remember that she passed it on. I was almost sure of
that.
Twenty minutes later the princess stood up; it was the signal
for the ladies to leave the room. She looked round us with a pleasant smile.
Then she said: "Before we leave you, may I have my ring back?"
I remember that my uncle Octavian said: "Oh, yes _ that
wonderful ring!" 1 remember that the newspaper owner said: "Oh, you
must not forget that!" And one of the women laughed.
Then there was silence. Each of us looked at his neighbour
and couldn't say anything. The princess was still smiling, though less easily.
She did not like to ask for things twice. "If you please", she said
proudly. "Then we can leave the gentlemen to their wine".
When nobody answered her, and the silence continued, I
still thought that it could only be a joke and that one of us probably the
prince himself - would show the ring. But when nothing happened at all, I knew
that the rest of the night would be terrible. Nobody knew what to do or say.
Then all the guests examined the whole room, but they did not find the princess's
ring - a thing, which probably cost two hundred thousand pounds. It had
disappeared in the room where there were only twelve, people who knew each
other very well.
No servants had entered the room. Nobody had left it
for a moment. The thief was one of us, one of uncle Octavian's dear old
friends.
I remember that the French minister began to turn out his
pockets, but my uncle stopped him. "There will be no searching ", he
said. "Not in my house. You are all my friends. The ring is lost. If it is
not found, I shall pay for it myself.
The guests began to look for the ring again. It was never
found, though the guests stayed till morning. Nobody wanted to leave the house
first. They still hoped to find the ring. The ring was never found.
I myself went back to England
He died a sad man who never gave a lunch or a dinner
party for the last thirty years of his life.
The House on the Hill
“ I don’t understand why you want to live here.
Usually you’re bored by countryside,” said Mr. White, looking at the hills and
the trees as he got into the car. “It’s very lonely.”
Penny White laughed. “I’ll be all right.
Thanks for your help, Dad. Goodbye.”
But when her father left, she felt a little
sad. She was rather depressed by the work to do in her new house on the hill.
She picked up the phone, but it was dead. Not a
sound. Perhaps they’ll connect it tomorrow, she thought. By now it was night.
She was just a little frightened by the noise of the wind and the rain.
Fortunately her new home was warm and dry. She made some tea and then went to
bed.
At first she couldn’t sleep because of the
wind. But she was tired after her long, busy day, and finally she fell asleep.
It was very dark when she woke up. She could hear a noise downstairs. There was
someone at the door.
It was the postman.” Sorry it’s so early, Miss.
“No,” replied Penny.” I live here alone. There
is no Mr. Parker here.”
The postman said, “Well, I’ve got some letters
for a Mr. Parker.”
Penny said. “That’s strange, it’s been ten
years since anyone lived here. Was he the last owner of the house?”
The postman replied, “I don’t know, I’m new
here. But you could ask the neighbour for his new address-old Mrs. Lane
Penny said, “I’ll go and see her this
afternoon.” She took the letters and went inside.
Half an hour later she heard the doorbell again.
It was the milkman. “I’m sorry, I didn’t order any milk,” said Penny.
The milkman replied,” but we had a phone call
last week. “Please deliver two pints of milk every day, from today.”
Penny was surprised by this. “But who called
you?” It wasn’t me. I don’t drink milk,” she said.
“Let me see,” said the milkman, looking at his
order book. “It was a Mr. Parker. “ penny took the milk and closed the door.
During the morning she put her things away. It
was hard work but soon the house looked quite tidy. After lunch the doorbell
rang a third time.
“Afternoon, miss. I’ve got a parcel here,
for…for…” the man looked at a piece of paper in his hand.
“For Mr. Parker?” asked Penny. The parcel
looked like a suitcase. It had some writing on it. IMPORTANT: TO WAIT FOR MR.
PARKER. “Leave it here,” she said, and closed the door.
The
rain fell and the wind blew as Penny walked over the hill to the neighbour’s
house. And old woman opened the door. She looked annoyed by Penny’s visit.
“hello,” said Penny. “I live in the house on the hill.”
“in
the Parker house?” Mrs. Lane
“That’s
right. Do you know Mr. Parker’s new address? I’ve got some things for him.”
The
old lady looked at Penny. “You’d better come in.” she said. Penny took off her
wet coat and sat down. “You know about Mr. Parker then, do you? “ asked Mrs. Lane
Penny
said no. “Oh. A sad story. He was a sailor. He lived most of his life at sea.
He only came back to his house on the hill every ten years. But the last time
he came back, there was someone living in his house, a stranger. Mr. Parker was
very angry.”
“What
happened?” asked Penny.
There
was an awful fight. The stranger killed Mr. Parker in his own house.”
Penny
asked “when did this happen?”
The
old lady replied, “let me see now. Oh, about ten years ago. She looked at
penny. “Where are you from? She asked.
Penny
replied, “from London
“So
you are a stranger as well,” Mrs. lane said.
It
was dark as Penny walked home. She was rather worried by the old woman’s story.
The rain fell and the wind blew.
Penny
was very nervous when she got back. What a pity the phone doesn’t work. She
thought. She sat in the living room and read. The storm was very heavy and the
noise was very frightening. Then the lights went out. She put her book away and
sat in the dark.
Suddenly
the telephone rang. She picked it up.” Who’s there?”
A
voice said. “I’m glad you are in, Mrs. White. I’d like to come and see you.”
Penny
was afraid. “How do you know my name? Who are you?”
The
voice replied, I’m the owner of the house you’re living in. My name is Geoffrey
Parker. I’m on my way.”
Penny put the phone down and picked it
up again. It was dead.
She
sat in the dark. Outside it was calm now. The storm was over. In the distance
she heard a car. She saw the headlights get closer, and then it stopped. She
heard footsteps outside the house on the hill.
The
Joker
It was a very happy funeral, a great
success. Even the sun shone that day for the late Henry Ground. Lying in his
coffin, he was probably enjoying himself too. Once more, and for the last time
on this earth, he was the centre of attention. Yes, it was a very jolly affair.
People laughed and told each other jokes. Relatives who had not spoken for years smiled at each
other and promised to stay in touch. And, of course, everyone had a favourite
story to tell about Henry.
'Do you remember the time he dressed up
as a gypsy and went from door to door telling people's fortunes? He actually
made £6 in an afternoon!'
'I was once having dinner with him in a
posh restaurant. When the wine-waiter brought the wine, he poured a drop into
Henry’s glass and waited with a superior expression on his face, as if to say
"Taste it, you peasant. It's clear that you know nothing about wine." So Henry,
instead of tasting it, the way any normal person would do, dipped his thumb and
forefinger into the wine. Then he put his hand to his ear and rolled his
fore-finger and thumb together as if he were listening to the quality of
the wine! Then he nodded to the wine-waiter solemnly, as if to say "Yes, that's fine. You may
serve it." You should have seen the wine-waiter's face! And how Henry
managed to keep a straight face, I'll never know!'
'Did you hear
about the practical joke he played when he was a student, the one with the
road-menders. Some workmen were digging a hole in the road. First, Henry phoned
the police and told them that some students were digging a hole in the
road, and that he didn't think it was a very funny thing to do. Then he went to
the workmen, and told them that some students had dressed up as policemen and were coming to tell them to
stop digging the hole! Well, you can imagine what happened! Total confusion!'
'Yes, old Henry loved to pull people's
legs. Once, when he was invited to an exhibition of some abstract modern
painter's latest work,
he managed somehow to get in the day before and turn all the paintings upside
down. The exhibition ran for four days before anyone noticed!'
'His father, poor man, could never
understand why Henry did such crazy things.'
'It's hard to believe that Henry was a Ground
when you think how different he was from his brothers.'
Yes, it was difficult to believe that he
was a Ground. He was born into an unimportant but well-to-do Midlands
family. He was the youngest of five sons. The Grounds were a handsome lot:
blue-eyed, fair-haired, clever and ambitious. The four older boys all made a
success of their lives. They married beautiful, buxom girls of good family, and
produced children as fair and handsome and clever as themselves. The eldest
became a clergyman; the second ended up as the headmaster of a famous
public school; the third went into business
and became disgustingly rich; the fourth followed in his father's footsteps
and became a solicitor. Which is why everybody was amazed when the youngest
Ground, Henry, turned out to be a lazy good-for-nothing.
Unlike his brothers, he had brown eyes and
dark hair, but he was every bit as handsome and charming, which made him quite
a ladykiller. And, although he never married, there is no doubt at all that
Henry Ground loved women. He also loved eating, drinking, laughing, talking and
a thousand other activities which don't make money or improve the human
condition.
One of his favourite pastimes was doing
nothing. His idea of an energetic afternoon when the sun was shining was to sit
under a shady tree, with a pretty companion by his side, and all the time in
the world to talk of this and that, to count the blades of grass, and to learn
the songs of the bees that buzzed around
him.
What a worthless fellow! Some people
whispered that his real father was not the respectable Mr Ground at all, but a
wild gypsy who had come one day to the house and had swept Mrs Ground off her
feet with his dancing black eyes and his wicked
country ways. It was a good story, juicy and romantic, but surely
untrue. One thing was sure: you couldn't help liking Henry Ground and
his talent for making you laugh. Henry Ground was, above all else, a joker.
Anyway, the stories went on even while
the coffin was being lowered into the grave. People held handkerchiefs to their
eyes, but their tears were tears of laughter, not sadness. Afterwards, there
was a funeral breakfast, by invitation only. It was attended by twelve of
Henry's closest friends. Henry Ground had asked his brother, Colin, to read out
his will during the funeral breakfast. Everyone was curious about Henry
Ground's will. Henry had been in debt all his life, hadn't he? What could he
possibly have to leave in a will?
Colin cleared his throat. 'Ahem! If you
are ready, ladies and gentlemen.' Everyone settled down expectantly. Colin
opened the will, and began to read it out in a singsong voice.
'I, Henry Ground, being of sound mind ….
last will and testament… do hereby bequeath..
The legal phrases rolled on and on, and the audience grew
impatient to get to the important part. It came soon enough. When
Colin announced that Henry Ground, despite his reputation as a
good-for-nothing, had invested his money very wisely, and was in fact worth at
least three-quarters of a million, everyone gasped. But who was going to get
it? Eyes narrowed and throats went dry.
'You are all such dear friends of mine,'
Colin went on, reading out Henry Ground's words in a monotone, which, in other
circumstances, would have sent everyone to sleep, 'that I cannot decide which
of you to leave my money to.' Colin paused. In the silence, you could have heard a pin drop. He resumed.
'So, dear friends, I have set you a little competition. Each of you in turn
must tell the funniest joke he or she can think of, and the one who gets the
most laughter will inherit my fortune. Colin will be the sole judge of the best
joke.'
'So, ladies and gentlemen,' said Colin,
putting the will down on the table, 'it's up to you now. Who will go first? May
I suggest that you go in alphabetical order of surnames?'
The first person stood up and told a
very funny joke about an Englishman who fell in love with his umbrella. When he finished, he was in tears of laughter,
for he always laughed at his own jokes. The rest of the company remained absolutely
silent. You could tell from their red faces and their screwed-up eyes that
they found the joke funny, but not one of them was prepared to laugh, and give
him the chance to win the competition.
The second told a story about a
three-legged pig, which was so good that, some years later, MGM made a cartoon
of it. When she sat down, the others buried their faces in their handkerchiefs,
coughed, pretended to sneeze, dropped pencils under the table - anything to
cover up their laughter. And so it went on, joke after wonderful joke, the sort
of jokes that make your sides ache. And nobody dared to laugh!
You know what it's like when you want to
laugh, but cannot. It happens in classrooms all the time. Somebody starts to
giggle, and then tries to stop. Immediately three or four others will want to
giggle. The desire to laugh spreads like an infection, and soon the entire
class is choking, while the teacher looks round baffled, wondering what all the
snuffling noises are.
Well, by the time the last joke had been
told, every one of the twelve was sitting perfectly still, desperately holding
in the laughter which
was bursting to get out. Their suppressed
laughter
had built up such a pressure: it was like a volcano ready to erupt.
Silence. Painful silence.
Suddenly, Colin sneezed. A perfectly
ordinary sneeze. Atishoo. Then he took out a ridiculously large spotted-red
handkerchief and blew his nose. Bbbrrrrrrppp.
That was enough. Someone burst out laughing,
unable to hold it in any longer. That started the others off. In no time,
everyone was doubled up, tears streaming from their eyes, their shoulders
heaving as wave after wave of laughter erupted like lava from a volcano. Of
course, they were not just laughing at the sneeze, nor even at the twelve
jokes. No, they were laughing at themselves as it dawned on them that Henry
Ground had led them into his last, and funniest, practical joke, setting their
need to laugh against their greed for money.
When, at long last, the laughter died
down, Colin cleared his throat once more. 'Forgive my little piece of theatre,'
he said, his eyes twinkling. 'I have been practising that sneeze for a week or
more.' He folded the enormous handkerchief and stuffed it into his pocket.
'Henry's idea, of course,' he added, unnecessarily: all twelve guests realised
they had been set up beautifully.
'Ahem! May I read you the rest of the
will now?' Colin asked.
'My friends,' the last paragraph began,
'forgive me, but I couldn’t resist playing one last little joke on you. It's
good to know that your love of laughter finally overcame your love of money.'
Colin paused, letting the meaning of the
words sink in. Then he read out the final part of the late Henry Ground's last
will and testament.
'My friends, thank you for letting me
have the last laugh. As for the money: because I love you all, my fortune will
be divided equally among you. Enjoy your share, and think of me whenever you
hear laughter.'
The
company fell silent. For the first time that day, there was a feeling of
sadness in the air.
The Umbrella Man
By
Roald Dahl
I’M GOING TO TELL YOU about a funny thing that happened to my
mother and me yesterday evening. I am twelve years old and I’m a girl. My
mother is thirty-four but I am nearly as tall as her already.
Yesterday afternoon my mother took me up to London
When we came out
of the cafe it had started to rain. “We must get a taxi” my mother said. We
were wearing ordinary hats and coats, and it was raining quite hard.
“Why don’t we go back into the cafe and wait for it to
stop?” I said. I wanted another of those banana splits. They were gorgeous. “It
isn’t going to stop.” my mother said. “We must get home.”
We
stood on the pavement in the rain looking for a taxi. Lots of them came by but
they all had passengers inside them. “I wish we had a car with a chauffeur” my
mother said.
Just then a man came up to us. He was a small man and he was pretty
old, probably seventy or more. He raised his hat politely and said to my
mother, “Excuse me, I do hope you will excuse me ..” He had a fine white
moustache and bushy white eyebrows and a wrinkly pink face. He was sheltering
under an umbrella, which he held high over his head.
“Yes, my mother said. “very cool and
distant.”
“I wonder if I could ask a small favour of
you,” he said. “It’s only a very small favour.”
I saw my mother looking at him
suspiciously. She is a suspicious person. my mother. She is especially
suspicious of two things –strange men and boiled eggs. When she cuts the top
off a boiled egg. She pokes around inside it with her spoon as though expecting
to find a mouse or something. With strange men she has a golden rule which
says, “The nicer the man seems to be, the more suspicious you must become”.
This little old man was particularly nice. He was polite. He was well spoken.
He was well dressed. He was a real gentleman. The reason I knew he was a
gentleman was because of his shoes. “You can always spot a gentleman by the
shoes he wears,” was another of my mother’s favourite sayings. This man had
beautiful brown shoes.
“The truth of the matter is,” the little man was saying, “I’ve got
myself into a bit of a scrape. I need some help. Not much I assure you. It’s
almost nothing, in fact, but I do need it. You see, madam, old people like me
often become terribly forgetful. ..”
My mother’s chin was up and she was staring
down at him along the full length of her nose. It was a fearsome thing, this
frosty-nosed stare of my mother’s. Most people go to pieces completely when she
gives it to them. I once saw my own headmistress begin to stammer and simper
like an idiot when my mother gave her a really foul frosty-noser. But the
little man on the pavement with the umbrella over his head didn’t bat an
eyelid. He gave a gentle smile and said, I beg you to believe, madam, that I am
not in the habit of stopping ladies in the street and telling them my
troubles.”
“ I should hope not,” my mother said.
I felt quite embarrassed by my mother’s sharpness. I wanted to say to
her, “Oh, mummy, for heaven’s sake, he’s a very very old man, and he’s sweet
and polite, and he’s in some sort of trouble, so don’t be so beastly to him.”
But I didn’t say anything.
The little man
shifted his umbrella from one hand to the other. I’ve never forgotten it
before,” he said.
“You’ve never
forgotten what?” my mother asked sternly.
“My wallet,” he said. “I must
have left it in my other jacket. Isn’t that the silliest thing to do?”
“Are you-asking me to give
you money?” my mother said.
“Oh, good gracious me, no! he said. “Heaven
forbid I should ever do that!”
“Then what are you asking? my mother
said. “Do hurry up. We’re getting soaked to the skin here…”
I know you are,” he said. “And that is why
I’m offering you this umbrella of mine to protect you and to keep forever, if ,
, .if only ..
“If only what?” my mother said.
“If only you would give me in return a
pound for my taxi fare just to get me home.”
My mother was still suspicious. “If you had
no money then how did you get here?”
“I walked.” he answered. “Every day I go for
a lovely long walk and then I summon a taxi to take me home. I do it every day
of the year.”
“Why don’t you walk home now?” my mother asked.
“Oh, I wish I could,” he said. “I do wish I
could. But I don’t think I could manage it on these silly old legs of mine.
I’ve gone too far already.”
My mother stood there chewing her lower lip. She was beginning to melt
a bit, I could see that, and the idea of getting an umbrella to shelter under
must have tempted her a good deal.
“It”s a lovely umbrella,” the little man
said.
“So I’ve noticed,” my mother said.
“It’s silk.” he said.
“I can see that.”
Then why don’t you take it, madam,” he said. 1t cost
me over twenty pounds, I promise you. But that’s of no importance so long as I
can get home and rest these old legs of mine.”
I saw my mother’s hand feeling for the
clasp of her purse. She saw me watching her. I was giving her one of my own frosty-nosed
looks this time and she knew exactly what I was telling her.
“Now listen, mummy”, I was telling her,
“you simply mustn’t take advantage of a tired old man in this way. It’s a
rotten thing to do”. My mother paused and looked back at me. Then she said to
the little man.
“I don’t think It’s quite right that I
should take an umbrella from you worth twenty pounds. I think I’d better just
give you the taxi fare and be done with it.”
“No, no no!” he
cried. It’s out of the question! I wouldn’t dream of it! Not a million years! I
would never accept money from you like
that! Take the umbrella, dear lady, and keep the rain off your shoulders!”
My mother gave me a triumphant sideways look.
“There you are”, she was telling me. “You’re wrong. He wants me to have
it.”
She fished into her purse and took out a pound note. She held it out to
the little man. He took it and handed her the umbrella. He pocketed the pound,
raised his hat, gave a quick bow from the waist, and said, “Thank you, madam,
thank you.” Then he was gone.
“Come
under here and keep dry, darling,” my mother said. “Aren’t we lucky. I’ve never
had a silk umbrella before. I couldn’t afford it.”
“Why were you so horrid to him in the
beginning?” I asked.
“I wanted to satisfy myself he wasn’t a
trickster” she said. “And I did. He was a gentleman. I’m very pleased I was
able to help him.”
“Yes,
mummy,” I said.
“A real gentleman.” she went on. “Wealthy,
too, otherwise he wouldn’t have had silk
umbrella. I shouldn’t be surprised if he isn’t a titled person. Sir Harry
Goldsworthy or something like that.”
“Yes, mummy,”
This will be a good lesson to you,” she went on. “Never rush things.
Always take your time when you are summing someone up. Then you’ll never make
mistakes.”
“There he goes.” I said. “Look.”
“Where?
“Over there. He’s crossing the street.
Goodness, mummy, what a hurry he’s in!”
We watched the little man as he
dodged nimbly in and out of the traffic. When he reached the other side of the
street, he turned left, walking very fast.
“He doesn’t look very tired to me, does he
to you, mummy?”
My mother didn’t answer.
“He doesn’t look as though he’s trying to
get a taxi, either,” I said.
My mother was standing very
still and stiff, staring across the street at the little man. We could see him
clearly. He was in a terrific hurry. He was bustling along the pavement,
sidestepping the other pedestrians and swinging his arms like a soldier on the
march.
“He’s up to something.” my mother said,
stony-faced.
“But what?”
“I don’t know.” my mother snapped. “But
I’m going to find out.
“Come with me.” She took my arm
and we crossed the street together.
Then
we turned left.
“Can you see him?” my mother asked.
“Yes. There he is. He’s turning right
down the next street.”
We came to the comer- and
turned right. The little man was about twenty yards ahead of us. He was
scuttling along like a rabbit and we had to walk very fast to keep up with him.
The rain was pelting down harder than ever now and I could see it dripping from
the brim of his hat on to his shoulders. But we were snug and dry under our
lovely big silk umbrella.
“What is he up to?” my mother said.
“What if he turns round and sees us?” I
asked.
“I don’t care if he
does”. My mother said. “He lied to us.
He said he was too tired to walk any further and he’s practically running us
off our feet! He’s a barefaced liar! He’s a crook!”
“You mean he’s not a titled gentleman?” I
asked.
“Be quiet.” she said.
At the next crossing the little man turned
right again.
Then he turned
left.
Then right.
“I’m not giving up now”, my mother said.
“He’s disappeared!” I cried. Where’s he
gone?”
“He went in that door!” my mother said. “I
saw him! Into that house! Great heavens, it’s a pub!
It was
a pub. In big letters right across the front it said THE RED LION. .
“You’re not going in are you, mummy?”
“No,” she said. “We’ll watch from
outside.”
There was a big window along the
front of the pub, and although it was a bit steamy on the inside, we could see
through it very well if we went close.
We stood huddled together outside the pub
window. I was clutching my mother’s arm. The big raindrops were making a loud
noise on our umbrella. “There he is,” I said. “Over there”.
The room we were looking into was full of
people and cigarette smoke, and our little man was in the middle of it all. He
was now without his hat and coat, and he was edging his way through the crowd
towards the bar. When he reached it, he placed both hands on the bar itself and
spoke to the barman. I saw his lips moving as he gave his order. The barman
turned away from him for a few seconds and came back with a smallish tumbler
filled to the brim with light brown liquid. The little man placed a pound note
on the counter.
“That’s my pound!” my mother hissed.
“What’s in the glass?” I
asked.
“Whisky,” my mother said.
“Neat whisky”
The barman didn’t give him any change from
the pound.
“That must be a treble
whisky.” my mummy said.
“What’s a treble?” I asked.
‘Three times the normal
measure,” she answered.
The little man picked up the glass and put it
to his lips. He tilted it gently. Then he tilted it higher. ..and higher. ..and
higher. ..and very soon all the whisky had disappeared down his throat in one
long pour.
“That’s a jolly expensive
drink.” I said.
“It’s ridiculous!” my mummy said. “Fancy
paying a pound for something to swallow in one go!” .
“It
cost him more than a pound,” I said. It cost him a twenty-pound silk umbrella.”
“So it did,” my mother said. He must be mad.”
The little man was standing by the bar with
the empty glass in his hand. He was smiling now, and a sort of golden glow of
pleasure was spreading over his round pink face. I saw his tongue come out to
lick the white moustache, as though searching for one last drop of that
precious whisky.
Slowly, he turned away from the bar and edged his way back through the
crowd to where his hat and coat were hanging. He put on his hat. He put on his
coat. Then in a manner so superbly cool and casual that you hardly noticed
anything at all he lifted from the coat rack one of the many wet umbrellas
hanging there, and off he went.
“Did you see that? my mother shrieked. “Did you see what he did?
“Ssshh!” I whispered. “He’s coming out!”
We lowered our umbrella to hide our faces, and peered out from under
it.
Out he came. But he never looked in our direction. He opened his new
umbrella over his head and scurried off down the road the way he had come.
“So that’s his little game!” my mother said.
“Neat,” I said. “Super.”
We followed him back to the main street where
we had first met him, and we watched him as he proceeded, with no trouble at
all, to exchange his new umbrella for another pound note. This time it was with
a tall thin fellow who didn’t even have a coat or hat. And as soon as the
transaction was completed, our little man trotted off down the street and was lost
in the crowd. But this time he went in the opposite direction.
“You see how clever he is!” my mother said.
“He never goes to the same pub twice!”
“He could go on doing this all night.” I
said.
“Yes.” my mother said. “Of course. But I’ll
bet he prays like mad for rainy days.”
discussion
- Why is
the “Umbrella Man” successful in his crime? What do you think he might do
when it is not raining?
- Is the
“Umbrella Man” a criminal? Should he go to prison for that?
- Have
you ever been tricked by anybody in a similar way to this?
St. Valentine's Story
Let me
introduce myself. My name is Valentine. I lived in Rome Rome
Claudius wanted to have a big army. He expected men to volunteer to
join. Many men just did not want to fight in wars. They did not want to leave
their wives and families. As you might have guessed, not many men signed up.
This made Claudius furious. So what happened? He had a crazy idea. He thought
that if men were not married, they would not mind joining the army. So Claudius
decided not to allow any more marriages. Young people thought his new law was
cruel. I thought it was preposterous! I certainly wasn't going to support that
law!
Did I
mention that I was a priest? One of my favorite activities was to marry
couples. Even after Emperor Claudius passed his law, I kept on performing marriage
ceremonies -- secretly, of course. It was really quite exciting. Imagine a
small candlelit room with only the bride and groom and myself. We would whisper
the words of the ceremony, listening all the while for the steps of soldiers.
One night, we did hear footsteps. It was scary! Thank goodness the
couple I was marrying escaped in time. I was caught. I was thrown in jail and
told that my punishment was death.
I tried
to stay cheerful. And do you know what? Wonderful things happened. Many young
people came to the jail to visit me. They threw flowers and notes up to my
window. They wanted me to know that they too, believed in love.
One of
these young people was the daughter of the prison guard. Her father allowed her
to visit me in the cell. Sometimes we would sit and talk for hours. She helped
me to keep my spirits up. She agreed that I did the right thing by ignoring the
Emperor and going ahead with the secret marriages. On the day I was to die, I
left my friend a little note thanking her for her friendship and loyalty. I
signed it, "Love from your Valentine."
I believe that note started the custom of exchanging love messages on
Valentine's Day. It was written on the day I died, February 14, 269 A.D. Now,
every year on this day, people remember. But most importantly, they think about
love and friendship. And when they think of Emperor Claudius, they remember how
he tried to stand in the way of love, and they laugh -- because they know that
love can't be beaten!
WHILE THE AUTO WAITS
The girl in grey
came again to that quiet corner of the small park. Her dress, though quite
simple, fitted her perfectly and was very becoming. She had on a pair of
high-heeled suede shoes. She was very slim and beautiful. Her hair was fair and
curly, her eyes - large and blue, her eyelashes were long and dark. Her hands
and legs were long and shapely, her complexion was pale. She had come to that
place at the same hour on the previous day and on the day before. There was a
young man who knew it and who admired the girl. He was eager to get acquainted
with her but was in a difficulty how to introduce himself.
That day the
girl was reading a book. When the young man came up to her and addressed her
she was so greatly astonished that she dropped her book. The young man picked
it up and returned it to the girl politely, saying a few commonplace words. The
girl looked at his simple ready-made coat and his common face and kept silent.
For a moment the young man seemed at a loss, but he broke the silence, saying: "You
are the finest girl I've ever seen. I saw you yesterday and the day before and
you cannot imagine what impression you've made on me."
The
girl interrupted him in an icy tone: "Whoever you are you must remember I
am a lady."
The
young man felt very uncomfortable and begged her pardon.
"Let's
change the subject," said the girl, "let's speak about the passing
people."
The young
man didn't quite understand the role he was to play, so he kept silent.
"You
see," continued the girl, "I came here because it is my only comfort.
It is only here that I can be among simple people. I'm very rich and I'm tired
of money, of pleasure, of jewels, of travel. I hate the rich men who surround
me."
The young man looked at her
with interest and astonishment.
"I've
always liked to read and hear about the life of the rich people. I always had
an idea that money must be a very good thing ..." he said.
"Not
when you are rich," returned the girl in grey. "You don't seem to be
a rich man. It's such a comfort to speak with a man unspoiled by money.
Sometimes I think if I ever loved I should love a poor, simple man. By the way
what's your profession?"
The young man hesitated a moment and then
said:
"I am a
cashier in the restaurant with the brilliant electric sign which you can see over there."
The girl looked at her watch and rose.
"Why are you not at work
then?"
"I'm on night shift so I have nearly an hour to
spare. May I hope to see you again?" said the
young man.
"Perhaps.
To-night I'm engaged, I must go to a reception. Excuse me, I must be off. Perhaps you noticed the white auto
at the entrance? It's mine."
"May I accompany you to the
auto?" asked the young man.
"No, don't. Remain here for 10 minutes. Don't go after me. I don't
want my driver to see you." And the girl went away. The
young man looked at her elegant figure, then went after
her.
He saw her
look at the white auto, pass it by, cross the street quickly and enter the
restaurant with the brilliant electric sign. He saw that a red-haired girl left the cashier's place and the girl in grey took
her place and began to work.
The young man smiled, put his hands into his pockets, came up to the
white automobile,
seated himself comfortably and leaning on the cushions said to the driver: "Club, Henry..."
The Case of the Deadly Room
DAILY BREAD
O. Henry
Miss Martha was forty
years old, and she wasn't married. She had a good heart and two thousand
dollars in the bank.
Martha wasn't married,
but she always showed a smiling face to the people who came every day to buy
bread in her little bakery. She sold fresh bread and stale bread. Fresh bread
cost five cents a loaf and stale bread cost five cents for two loaves;
One day a middle-aged
man, whom she hadn’t seen before, came to her shop. She liked him and began to
be interested in.
He came to the bakery
two or three times a week. He had light brown hair and blue eyes. His clothes
were not new, but always very clean. He always bought two loaves of stale
bread, never fresh, and Miss Martha decided that he was very poor. He had long,
very white hands; she could see that he wasn't a workman. "Perhaps he is
an artist," she thought, "a poor artist, living in a cold dark room
and painting beautiful pictures." She often thought of him when she sat
down to her dinner of meat and vegetables, and bread and butter and tea and
jam. She thought of him sitting alone in his cold dark corner, eating his dry,
stale bread. How sorry she was that she could not invite him to have dinner
with her! Or perhaps he wasn't an
artist. Perhaps he couldn't find any work and walked the streets all day long,
looking for something to do. That was even worse. Miss Martha was ready to cry
whenever she thought of it. She wanted to talk to him, to know more about him.
But how? He never spoke to her, except to ask for two loaves of stale bread. At
last she thought of a plan which, she hoped, would not only help her to
discover his profession, but would let her begin a conversation with him.
In her room behind the
shop, Miss Martha had a painting which she always liked to look at. It was a
painting of a wonderful white palace on an island in a lake. There was a little
boat on the blue water of the lake; and in the boat lay a beautiful girl, with
one hand in the water. Miss Martha brought the painting from her room and put
it on the wall just behind the place where she kept the loaves of bread.
The next day the man came
in, and said, as usual, "Two loaves of stale bread, please." As Miss
Martha turned to him with the loaves of bread, her heart began to beat more
quickly. She saw that he was looking at her picture, there was even a smile on
his face.
"You have a fine
picture here, madam," he said as she handed him the bread.
"I am glad you think
so," Miss Martha answered. "It's my favourite picture." She
turned and looked at the picture. "I admire art so much," she said,
"and ..." she was going to say, "and artists," but she
stopped: it was too early to say that. "... and paintings," she
finished instead. "Do you think it is a good picture?"
The man looked at the
picture again, this time more carefully, then said: "Yes, the picture
isn't bad, not bad at all. But I'm afraid the proportions of the palace aren't
quite right." He took the bread without saying anything else and left the
shop.
Miss Martha went to the
window and looked after him. How nice he was! How his blue eyes shone behind
his eyeglasses! How quickly he saw that the proportions in the picture were
wrong! She was sure now that he was an artist. An artist — and living on stale
bread! His life was so hard: it could be so much easier with her two thousand
dollars in the bank, with her bakery, with her heart that understood ... but
she stopped herself. These were day-dreams, she had no right to think such
things.
Often now, when he came,
he stopped to talk a few minutes to Miss Martha. He seemed to like her smile,
the sound of her voice, her conversation. But he continued to buy only stale
bread. Never a cake, never even a loaf of fresh bread. He looked thinner, she
thought, and unhappy. How she wanted to put something good into the parcel
together with his stale bread! But, she hadn't enough courage for that. She
knew how proud artists were, how they hated gifts in any form.
Miss Martha began to wear
her silk blouse in the shop. She was wearing it one day when her artist came in
and asked, as usual, for two 'loaves of stale bread. Miss Martha had just
turned to the shelf to get the loaves, when there was a great noise in the
street, and fire-engines began to pass the house. The artist ran to the door to
look, and at that moment the great idea came to Miss Martha's mind.
On the lower shelf there
was a big piece of fresh butter that she had bought that morning. Miss Martha
took a knife, made a hole in each loaf of bread and put a big piece of butter
in it. When the artist turned round, she had already made a paper parcel with
the two loaves in it. When the artist had left after a very pleasant little
conversation, Miss Martha smiled to herself, but her heart was beating faster
than usual. She hoped the artist would not be angry when he discovered the
butter. But no, how could he be angry about such a small thing? Nobody thought
of butter as a gift!
She thought of what was
happening in the artist's room. It was lunch time, her artist had stopped
painting and was looking at his beautiful picture, in which the proportions
were quite right. Soon he would sit down to his cup of tea and dry bread. He
would break one of the loaves — ah! — Would he think as he ate, of the hand
that had put the butter into that loaf? Would he ...?
The bell over the shop
door rang loudly and two men came in. One of them was a young man she had never
seen before. The other was her artist..,
The artist's face was
very red, his hat was on the back of his head, his eyes were wild.
"You foolish old
woman!" he shouted at Miss Martha. At Miss Martha!
The younger man tried to
pull him away. "No, I won’t go!" artist cried, freeing his arm.
"I won't go until I tell
her!" Then to Miss Martha: "You have ruined my life; you have ruined
everything! You are a foolish old cat!"
Miss Martha closed her
eyes. She held one hand to her face, the other was on her silk blouse over her
heart. She felt that the shelves full of bread were going round her in great
circles.
The young man took the
artist's arm again. "You've said enough; come on!" He pulled the
angry artist to the door and pushed him into the street. Then he closed the
door and came back to Miss Martha.
"I'll explain what
happened," he said. "I couldn't, while he was in the room. You see,
he's an architect. We work together in the same office. He has worked hard for
six months, drawing a plan for a
Miss Martha went into her
room behind the shop. She took off the silk blouse and put on her old brown
one. Then she sat down and cried.
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