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учебно-методический материал по английскому языку (9 класс) по теме

                                                                         TEXT  ONE

                                                                     THE  HARD  WAY

They were about to start Christmas lunch. The family were all sitting expectantly round the table: Dad, Mum, Ron and Jennie — and Jan.

Everybody was talking at once. Dad was waiting, a bit impatiently, to say what he said every year as he cut the first slice of turkey.

Jan didn't feel like talking. She was thinking of Davey, and didn't really pay any attention to the other people at the table.

When she saw the table — the huge brown turkey in front of her father, the dishes of potatoes and vegetables — she thought of Davey's words the night before. "We're killing ourselves with too much food and three quarters of the world are starving to death..."

"A bit of turkey, Jan?"

Jan hesitated, then took a deep breath and said, "No turkey for me, thank you."

Silence. The other members of the family stared at her.

"It's horrible," said Jan, trembling a little." — We are eating like pigs and they're starving —"

"Who's starving?" Dad asked, looking puzzled.

"Oh, everybody — the rest of the world —you know, you see enough of it on TV!"

Mr. Morris stood still in front of the turkey. He was trying to keep control of himself. "So you think we're all a lot of pigs, do you? And where did you get that idea from?"

"Davey said —"

"Oh, Davey said, did he? That long haired layabout? Well, shall I tell you what you can do?"

"Jim!" Jan's mother put her hand on his arm, but he shook her off. He was in a terrible rage.

"Shall I tell you what you can do?" he went on.

"You can get out of here and spend the rest of your Christmas with your Davey."

Jan knew her father didn't like Davey, but she hadn't expected this rage.

"You're wrong, Dad," she said. "Davey doesn't deserve that sort of criticism."

"Get out!"

The rest of the family didn't say a word as Jan left the room, crying.

There was nobody else around in the streets at three o'clock that after noon. It was Christmas Day, after all. Most people were inside watching TV, or eating.                                                                                          

She was walking towards Davey's house. Her father had told her to go and spend the rest of Christmas with him, and that was what she was going to do.                                                                                           I

She was lucky: Davey was in.

"Hi,  Jan! Fancy seeing you here! I thought you were spending Christmas in the heart of the family, eating Christmas pudding and all that stuff."

"Well, I was, but ... can I come in, Davey?"

There was a slight pause before he said. "Sure. I've got a few people here, but one more won't make any difference."

It was pretty dark in the room. There was one candle, burning in a saucer on a shelf in one corner of the room. Jan couldn't see how many people there were, but she guessed about seven or eight; they were all sitting, or lying on the floor. Indian music was coming from somewhere.

There was a smell, too: of damp, and old cooking, and something Jan didn't recognize — incense perhaps?

Jan sat down. She was feeling tired and, she had to admit, hungry. She wondered if Davey had, after all, any food.

Nobody was talking. The music droned on. The air got thicker and thicker, and the strange smell got stronger and stronger.

"Want one,  Jan?"

Davey was standing over her. The candle had got so low she could hardly see what he was offering her.

"What is it?"

"This."

It was like a long cigarette. Everybody else seemed to be holding one.

"What is it?"

"Come on, Jan, you know."

Yes, she knew. So that was the smell: pot. She felt sick. The room spun in front of her eyes. She felt herself sweating.

The candle seemed to grow six feet tall. She struggled to her feet.

"Hey, kid. What's up?"

Davey grabbed her arm, and looked accusingly at her.

"Where are you going?"

Jan pulled her arm away from him. "I don't know — I — I need some air, that's all. Let me go, Davey."

He was smiling but it was a hard smile. "OK," he said. "Suit yourself. You must be nuts, or something. We were just about to have some food, too."                                                                                                                

But Jan didn't hear him. She was already at the door, leaving a Christmas gathering for the second time that day.                                         (After M. Rodgers)                                                                                            I

1 to starve to death умирать   от голода

2 layabout [‘lei’abaut] бездельник

3 incense ['inserts] ладан, фимиам

4 pot [pot] ( разг.)  марихуана

5 nuts [nAts] слэнгпсих, чокнутый

                                                                                                                                                                                     I

                                                                            TEXT   TWO

                                                                          STEPMOTHER

I was born at Number Nineteen, Tummill  Street, London. My mother died when I was five years old. She died fifteen minutes after my sister Polly was born.

As my father worked from morning till night, he had no time to look after Polly and me, so he married again soon.

He married Mrs. Burke, who was much younger and more good-looking than my mother.

But I did not like my stepmother and she did not like me. So we began to hate each other; but she did not show her hatred when my father was at home.

She beat me very often and she made me work very hard. From morning till night she found work for me to do. I looked after the baby. When she was awake, I took her for a walk, carrying her in my arms, and she was very heavy. I cleaned the rooms, went shopping, etc. There was always work for me to do.

One day a woman came to see my stepmother and they drank a lot of gin. All the money that my father had left for our dinner was spent. When the woman went home, my stepmother said to me in tears, "Oh, what shall I do, Jimmy, dear, what shall I do? Your father will come home soon, and mere's no dinner for him. He will beat me cruelly!

What shall I do, what shall I do?"

I was sorry for her, she had tears in her eyes, and she called me "Jimmy, dear" for the first time. I asked her if I could help her and she said at once, "Oh, yes, you can help me! When your father comes home in the evening,

Jimmy, dear, tell him that you lost the money he left for our dinner."

"How could I lose it?" I asked in surprise.

"You can tell him that I sent you to buy some food.  

Suddenly a big boy ran against you and the money fell out of your hand and you could not find it. That will be very easy to say, Jimmy, dear, please, say it to у our father!"

"But he'll give me a good beating1 for it!" "Oh, no, he won't! I shall not let him beat you, you may be sure! Here is a penny for you, go and buy some sweets with it!"

So I went off and spent my penny on sweets.

When I came back and opened the door, my father was at home waiting for me with his waist-belt in his hand. I wanted to run out of the room, but he caught me by the ear.

"Stop a minute, young man!" he said.

"What have you done with the money?"

"I lost it, Father," said I in fear and looked at my stepmother.                                                                     II

"Oh, you lost it! Where did you lose it?"

"In  the street, Father.  Ask Mrs. Burke, she knows!"

I told him what my stepmother had asked me to tell him. I was not much surprised that he did not believe my story.

But my stepmother's words surprised me very much.

"Yes, he told me the same thing," she said, "but he is a liar! He has spent your money on sweets. I can't beat him, he is your child, but you can give him a good beating!"

And she stood by while my father beat me with his belt till the blood showed. I hated my stepmother so much now that I wanted to see her dead.

(After J. Greenwood)                                                                                                                                                  

1 to give a good beating - выпороть, устроить хорошую взбучку                                                              II

                                                                          TEXT   THREE

                                                                 A NOTE ABOUT WITCHES

In fairy-tales, witches always wear silly black hats and black cloaks, and they ride on broomsticks.

But this is not a fairy-tale. This is about REAL WITCHES.

The most important thing you should know about REAL WITCHES is this.

Listen very carefully. Never forget what is coming next.

REAL WITCHES dress in ordinary clothes and look very much like ordinary women. They live in ordinary houses and they work in ORDINARY JOBS.

That is why they are so hard to catch.

Luckily, there are not a great number of REAL WITCHES in the world today. But there are still quite enough to make you nervous. In England, there are probably about one hundred of them altogether.

Some countries have more, others have not quite so many. No country in the world is completely free from WITCHES.

A witch is always a woman.

I do not wish to speak badly about women. Most women are lovely. But the fact remains that all witches are women. There is no such thing as a male witch.

As far as children are concerned, a REAL WITCH is the most dangerous of all the living creatures on the earth. What makes her doubly dangerous is the fact that she doesn't look dangerous.

Even when you know all the secrets (you will hear about those in a minute), you can still never be quite sure whether it is a witch you are looking at or just a kind lady.

For all you know, a witch might be living next door to you right now.

Or she might be the woman with the bright eyes who sat opposite you on the bus this morning.

She might be the lady with the dazzling smile who offered you a sweet from a white paper bag in the street before lunch.

She might even — and this will make you jump — she might even be your lovely school-teacher who is reading these words to you at this very moment.

Look carefully at that teacher. Perhaps she is smiling at the absurdity of such a suggestion. Don't let that put you off. It could be part of her cleverness.

I am not, of course, telling you for one second that your teacher actually is a witch. All I am saying is that she might be one. It is most unlikely. But — and here comes the big "but" — it is not impossible.

Oh, if only there were a way of telling for sure whether a woman was a witch or not, we could round them all up and put them in the meat-grinder.                                                                                           III

Unhappily, there is no such way. But there are a number of little signals you can look out for, little quirky habits that all witches have in common, and if you know about these, if you remember them always, then you might just possibly manage to escape danger.

(After R. Dahl)

1 they are so hard to catch - их так трудно поймать

2 the fact remains  -  факт остается фактом

3 As far as children are concerned [ken'S3:nd]  Что  касается  детей

4 For all you know, a witch might be living next door to you -  Как  знать,  возможно,  ведьма  живет с

вами по соседству

5 Don' t let that put you off!   Это не должно сбить вас с толку

6 Oh, if only there were a way... Ax, если бы существовал способ...

7 to round [raund] up - согнать в одно место, произвести облаву

8 meat-grinder ['mi:t,grainda] мясорубка

9 that all witches have in common -  (зд.) – свойственные  всем  ведьмам                                                III

                                                                          TEXT  FOUR            

                                                                THE SCHOOL-TEACHER

Three months passed. Little by little Andrew got used to this strange town, surrounded by the mountains, and to the people most of whom worked in the mines. The town was full of mines, factories, churches and small dirty old houses. There was no theatre, not even a cinema the workers could go to after work. But Andrew liked the people. They spoke little and worked much. They liked football, and what was more interesting, they were fond of music, good classical music. He often heard the sound of a piano, coming from this or that house.

It was clear to Andrew now, that Doctor Page would never see a patient again. Manson did all the work, and Mrs. Page received all the money. She paid out to Manson less than one sixth of that — twenty pounds and sixteen shillings a month. Almost all of it Andrew sent to the University to pay his debt.

But at that time the question of money was not important to him. He had a few shillings in his pocket to buy cigarettes and he had his work, and that was more than enough for him.

He had to work hard and to think much for he saw now that the professors at his University had given him very little to know about practical medicine.

He thought about all that walking in the direction of Riskin Street. There in Number 3 he found a small boy of nine years of age ill with measles. "I am sorry, Mrs. Howells," Andrew said to the boy's mother. "But you must keep Idris home from school." (Idris was  Mrs. Howells' other son.)

"But Miss Barlow says he may come to school."

"Oh? Who is Miss Barlow?"

"She is the teacher."

"Miss Barlow has no right to let him come to school when his brother has measles," Andrew said angrily.

Five minutes later he entered a classroom of the school. A very young woman of about twenty or twenty-two was writing something on the blackboard.

She turned to him.

"Are you Miss Barlow?"

"Yes." Her large brown eyes were looking at him friendly.

"Are you Doctor Page's new assistant?"

Andrew reddened suddenly.

"Yes," he said, "I'm Doctor Manson. You know Idris' brother has measles and so Idris must not be here."

"Yes, I know, but the family is so poor and Mrs Howells is so busy. If Idris stays at home, he won't get his cup of milk.

And, Doctor Manson, most of the children here have had measles already."

"And what about the others? You must send that boy home at once."                                                  IV

"Well, Doctor," she interrupted him suddenly. "Don't you understand that I'm the teacher of this class and here it's my word that counts?"

"You can't have him here, Miss Barlow. If you don't send him home at once, I'll have to report you."

"Then report me, or have me arrested if you like." She quickly turned to the class. "Stand up, children, and say: 'Good-bye, Doctor Manson. Thank you for coming.' "

Before Andrew could say a word the door closed quietly in his face.

(After A. Cronin)

1 mine шахта

2 ill with measles ['mi:zlz] больной корью

3 Howells ['haualz]

4 Idris ['aidris]

5 keep from school  не пускать в школу

6 Barlow ['ba:leu]  

7 here it's my word that counts  зд.  здесь я хозяйка

8 I'll have to report you. Мне придется заявить на вас в полицию.

9 have me arrested  пуcть меня арестуют

10 in his face   зд. у него перед носом                                                                                                            iv

                                                                      TEXT  FIVE

                                                         AN EXPLOSION AT NIGHT

All that month Andrew worked from early morning till late at night. He loved his work. His patients were already almost well. The results of his work were even better than those of Denny's. The epidemic was coming to an end.

On the tenth of November Denny suddenly rang him up.

"Manson! I'd like to see you. Can you come to my place at three o'clock? It's important."

"Very well.  I'll be there!"

On the way to Denny's house he saw Doctor Bramwell.

"Ah,  Manson,  my boy! I'm so glad to see you."

Andrew smiled. Doctor Bramwell, unlike Lewis, had been friendly towards Manson all that month. "Of course, we have all heard of your work with the typhoid cases, and we are proud of you, my dear boy. You must come to see us one evening."

Andrew promised to come.

When Andrew entered Denny's room, he saw immediately that something was wrong with Denny. He was very sad.

After a moment he looked up.

"One of my patients, a boy, died this morning," he said coldly. "And besides, I have two new typhoid cases. What shall we do?"

Andrew stood at the door, hardly knowing what to say.

"We have to do something about it," he began. "We must write to the Ministry of Health."

"We could write a dozen letters but it won't help much, I tell you. No! There's only one way to make them build a new sewer."

"How?"

"Blow up the old one. And let's do it tonight!"

"But there will be a lot of trouble if it becomes known."

Denny looked up angrily.

"You needn't take part in it if you don't want to."

"I'll go with you," Andrew answered.

He understood it was a crime, a dangerous game with the police. They might even strike him off at the very beginning    of his beautiful career. Yet, he himself did not know why he could not refuse.           V

At eleven o'clock that night Denny and he started in the direction of Glydar Street. It was very dark. There was nobody in the street. The town was sleeping.

The two men moved quietly. In the pocket of his coat Denny had six small boxes of dynamite; each box had a hole in it, and a fuse." There was an electric torch in Andrew's hand.

Soon they reached the first manhole of the sewer in Glydar Street. Andrew's heart was beating fast. It was very difficult for them to open the cover, but after a short struggle it was done. Andrew took the electric torch out of his pocket. They saw a dirty stream running on the broken stone floor.

"Nice, isn't it?" Denny whispered.

"Take a look at the terrible holes in the floor. Take a last look, Manson. People are dying because of this, but the Council doesn't want to do anything."

No more was said. Andrew's hands trembled, but he worked quickly. They set fire to the fuses, then threw the boxes into the dirty stream, put the manhole cover back in its place and ran into the darkness.

They heard an explosion, two, three, four, five and the last.

"By  God!" Andrew shouted. "We have done it, Denny."

He felt it was the best moment in his life. He almost loved the other man now.

They saw people running out of their houses and started walking home by the back ways.

(After A. Cronin)

1 explosion [iks'plau3n] взрыв

2 epidemic [,epi'demik] эпидемия

3 unlike Lewis [1u:is] не в пример Льюису

4 typhoid ftaifoid] брюшной тиф

5 Ministry of Health Министерство здравоохранения

6 sewer ['sju:a]  канализационная  труба

7 Blow up the old one. Взорвать старую.

8 strike him off   лишить звания врача

9 Glydar Street ['glaida ‘stn:t]

10 dynamite  damamait] динамит

11 fuse [fju:z] бикфордов шнур, фитиль

12 manhole ['maenhaul] люк

13 Council ['kaunsl] муниципальный совет                                                                                              V

14 set fire to поджечь

15 by the back ways окольными    путями                                                                                                 V

                                                                     TEXT  SIX

                                                                ADVENTURE

It was a fine night when Hubert climbed the steps of a bus. He was returning from the Tumbersomes, pleasant but dull people who were friends of his family. They had given him a fairly good dinner but they had left him dissatisfied.

From the top of his bus which carried him along brilliantly-lighted but now deserted streets, Hubert sighed for adventure.

There is something theatrical about these streets when the hour is approaching midnight.

They suggest that at any moment the most unusual drama might begin. Hubert, a reader of fiction, a playgoer, a lover of film shows, always hoped that something mysterious, romantic would happen to him. But somehow it never did.

In a few minutes, he would leave the bus, walk down one street and arrive at the little flat in which he lived with his friend, John Langton. They would make some tea, talk for about half-hour, and then go to bed. The evening would be over, finished, and the next morning he would go to the office.

Meanwhile time was flying. Hubert was twenty-three, and it seemed to him that he was nearly middle-aged.

He looked around at the other passengers on the bus. It was difficult to see their faces, but they were dull, as usual.

No men with scars stared at him, no beautiful girls with tears in their eyes asked for help. Then he saw a golden light which came from the coffee-stall at the corner.

From fiction Herbert knew that there was something romantic about coffee-stalls. He decided to leave the bus at the corner.

He went to the coffee-stall and ordered a cup of coffee and a piece of cake.

There were only two or three men there. Hubert tried the coffee and found that it was hotter and more tasteless than ever. What a life!

But at that moment a taxi came and stopped at the stall. The door opened and a man almost fell out of it. He came zigzagging over the stall and passing Hubert he pushed him so that his coffee and cake went flying.

"Sorry, old man," said the newcomer. "Very,  very sorry. What was it?"

"It doesn't matter,"

Hubert told him. "I really didn't want that coffee."

The man looked at him, laughing,  "Then why order it, why pay for it, if you don't want it?"

Hubert smiled and said, "Oh, I just stopped here — on my way home, you know —just for something to do."

"Too  early to go home, eh?   "                                                                                                                               VI

"Well, you know how you feel sometimes," said Hubert. The man patted Hubert on the shoulder.

"I do. I feel like it. Now I'll tell you what. You come with me, old man. I am just going to a little club. You come with me. I'll show you something."

Hubert hesitated. The man was obviously drunk, and a visit to some night club in his company was not very attractive.

"Well, I don't know..." he began.

"The only thing is," said the man seriously, coming nearer, "can you keep a secret? That's important. If not, I can't invite you."

This decided Hubert. There was a real adventure! So he thanked the man, and agreed to accompany him.

They got into the waiting taxi. In another minute they were moving along some dark and deserted street.

(AfterJ.B.Priestley)

1 Hubert ['hju:bat]

2 Tumbersome [ЧлтЬэзэт]

3 But somehow it never did .   Но это как-то никогда не случалось.

4 meanwhile ['mi:nwail]  между тем

5 coffee-stall ['kofisto:!] кафе

6 went flying   полетели (на поп)

7 I'll tell you what    знаете что; послушайте меня

8 This  decided  Hubert. Это заставило Хьюберта решиться.                                                                  VI

                                                                TEXT   SEVEN

                                                    HOW WE KEPT MOTHER'S DAY

We decided to have a special celebration of Mother's Day. We thought it a fine idea. It made us realize how much Mother had done for us for years, and all the efforts and sacrifices that she had made for our sake.

So we decided that we'd make it a great day, a holiday for all the family, and do everything we could to make Mother happy. Father decided to take a holiday from his office, so as to help in celebrating the day, and my sister Ann and I stayed home from college classes, and Mary and my brother Will stayed home from High School.

It was our plan to make it a day just like Christmas or any big holiday, and so we decided to decorate the house with flowers. We asked Mother to do it, because she always does it.

The two girls thought it would be a nice thing to dress in our best for such a big occasion, and so they both got new hats. Father had bought silk ties for himself and us boys. We were going to get

Mother a new hat too, but it turned out that she liked her old hat better than a new one.

After breakfast we decided that we would hire a motor car and take Mother for a beautiful drive away into the country.

But on the very morning of the day we changed the plan a little bit. We all felt that it would be nicer to have a definite purpose. It turned out that Father had just got a new rod the day before, and he said that Mother could use it if she wanted to: in fact, he said it was practically for her, only Mother said she would rather watch him fish than fish herself.

So we got everything arranged for the trip. Mother cut up some sandwiches and packed all up in a basket for us.

When the car came to the door, it turned out that we couldn't all get in.

Father said that he could stay at home and work in the garden. The girls said that Mother had only to say the word and they'd gladly stay at home and work.

In the end it was decided that Mother would stay at home and have a lovely restful day round the house. It turned out anyway that Mother didn't care for fishing and also it was just a little bit cold and fresh out-of-doors, though it was lovely and sunny, and Father was afraid that Mother might take cold if she came.

We had the loveliest day. Father and the boys fished, the girls met quite a lot of people. We all had a splendid time.

It was quite late when we got back. We sat down to dinner. It was grand. When it was over all of us wanted to help clear the things up and wash the dishes, only Mother said that she would really much rather do it. When we all kissed Mother before going to bed, she said it had been the most wonderful day in her life and I think there were tears in her eyes.

(After S. Leacock)

1 to keep Mother's Day отмечать (праздновать) День Матери

2 for our sake ради нас

3 it turned out... оказалось, что

4 we got everything arranged for the trip  мы всё подготовили к поездке                                                 VII

                                                                      TEXT  EIGHT

                                                     LOOKING BACK ON EIGHTY YEARS

In my long life I have seen many changes in our habits and customs.

The world I entered when at the age of eighteen I became a medical student was a,world that knew nothing of planes, motor-cars, movies, radio or telephone.

When I was still at school a lecturer showed us boys a new machine which reproduced the human voice. It was the first gramophone. The world I entered was a world that warmed itself with coal fires, lit itself by gas and looked upon a bathroom as a luxury out of the reach.

It was a very cheap world. When I entered St Thomas's Hospital I took a couple of furnished rooms for which I paid 18s a week. My landlady provided me with a solid breakfast before I went to the hospital and high tea when I came back at half-past six, and the two meals cost me about 12s a week. I was able to live very comfortably, pay my fees, buy my necessary instruments, and clothe myself.

I had enough money to go to the theatre at least once a week. The pit, to which I went, was not the orderly thing it's now.

There were no queues. The crowd collected at the doors, and when they were opened there was a struggle, with a lot of pushing and elbowing and shouting to get a good place. But that was part of the fun.

Travelling was cheap, too, in those days. When I was twenty I went to Italy by myself for the six weeks of the Easter vacation.

I spent five years at St Thomas's Hospital. I was an unsatisfactory medical student, for my heart was not in it. I wanted, I had always wanted, to be a writer, and in the evening, after my tea, I wrote and read.

I wrote a novel, called Liza of Lambeth sent it to a publisher, and it was accepted. It appeared during my last year at the hospital and had something of a success. It was of course an accident, but naturally I did not know that. I felt I could afford to chuck medicine and make writing my profession; so three days after passing the final examinations which gave me my medical qualifications, I set out for Spain to learn Spanish and write another book. Looking back now, after these years, and knowing as I do the terrible difficulties of making a living by writing, I realize that I was taking a fearful risk. It never occurred to me. I abandoned the medical profession with relief, but I do not regret the five years I spent at the hospital, far from it .

They taught me pretty well all I know about human nature, for in a hospital you see it in the raw. People in pain, people in fear of death, do not try to hide anything from their doctor, and if they do he can generally guess what they are hiding.

(After S. Maugham)

1 a luxury ['lAkJari] out of the reach  недосягаемая  роскошь

2 18$ a week 18 шиллингов в неделю

3 high tea "большой чай", ранний ужин с чаем

4 pay fees  (зд.) платить за обучение

3 by myself  сам, один

6” Liza of Lambeth "Лиза из Ламберта" (одно из ранних произведений Моэма)

7 to chuck( разг). бросить, оставить

8 to make a living by writing зарабатывать на жизнь писательским трудом

9 far from It (зд.) наоборот

10 in the raw [ro:] без прикрас, в чистом виде, как есть                                                                             VIII

                                                                       NEXT   NINE

                                                               A NAME ON THE WALL

Steve Mason had lived in New York for three years. His address book was filled with the phone numbers of girls he knew and had dated. Then why, he wondered, was he sitting in a phone booth about to dial PL 1-2450 — the phone number of a girl he had never seen or even heard about?

Because he was curious.

He had seen the name Pam Starr and the number PL 1-2450 twice in one week.

The first time had been on the wall of a phone booth on 42nd Street. Then a minute ago he saw the name and number again — this time near a phone in a drugstore.

The name Pam Starr was the same. The handwriting was the same. And below it the same person had written, "Quite a chick".

Steve was so curious that he decided to call. He wanted to find out what would happen. It could be an interesting adventure.

He could hear himself telling the whole story to his friends and laughing about it when it was over.

So he took a deep breath and dialled PL 1-2450.

He heard two rings; then a soft, pleasant, girl's voice said, "Hello".

"May I speak to Pam Starr?" Steve asked.

"This is Pam," she answered. "Who is this?"

"Steven Wordsley," he said using a phoney name. "You don't know me," he added quickly. "I've just moved to New York from Chicago. But before I left, a friend of a friend of mine gave me your name... So how about a date?" He paused.

"Come on. Gamble I swear I don't have two heads."

She laughed and said, "I'm sure you don't. I've got an idea. I like your voice, and I think I'll like you. But I might not.

And then again, you might not like me.

So why don't we go to a movie? You pick one out and call me back. Then we'll go out, and even if we don't like each other at least we can both enjoy the show."

"Uh, all right, sure," Steve answered. He felt proud of himself. There was no question in his mind that this chick knew her way around with men.

Steve found a movie that sounded good, but he didn't call her back right away. He waited two days so he wouldn't seem too eager. Then he called and made a date for the next Saturday evening.

At seven-thirty Saturday night Steve went to her address. For a moment he hesitated. But he was too curious to give up now.

She opened the door, and Steve knew he was a loser. The girl had tried to make herself look attractive, but she couldn't hide her homeliness. She wasn't really ugly, but she was no gorgeous chick.

Steve covered up his disappointment with a friendly smile. "Hello, Pam. I'm Steve."

She laughed and said, "I know I'm not the most beautiful girl in the world, but —"

"I wasn't looking for the most beautiful girl in the world," Steve lied. "Come on, let's go see the movie."

He smiled as cheerfully as he could.

This homely girl probably accepted a lot of blind dates just so she could go out.

And someone probably thought it was a good joke to write her name and number on the walls of phone booths.

"Do you go out often?" Steve asked.

"It's probably luck," she said, "but I get enough phone calls to keep me busy. I get a lot of calls from guys I don't know. I'm not sure where they get my name. Maybe from a friend, like you did. I don't know. Some are nice and some aren't."

"Well, which am I?" Steve asked.

"Nice," she laughed.

On their way back to her apartment, Steve lied again and told Pam that his company was sending him back to Chicago the next week and that he didn't know when he would return to New York.

Steve couldn't decide if she believed his story, but he didn't really care. He had taken her out and shown her a good time.

That was all she could expect with her looks.

When they got to her apartment, they stood in the doorway and said goodnight.

"Thanks for the lovely evening," she said. She seemed to know that she wouldn't be asked for another date.

Suddenly Steve felt very sorry for her.

He decided that it wouldn't hurt him to fake an interest in her, and it would probably mean a lot to her if she thought someone wanted to see her again.

"I'm sorry I have to leave town," he said. "There's just a chance that I'll get back to New York soon. For a day or so. Maybe we can go out again. Could I call you?"

For a minute she looked as if she didn't believe what she had heard. Then her smile got brighter. "Could you? I'd love that! Do you think they'll send you back soon?"

"Sure, sure, you never know," Steve said.

"You won't lose my number, will you? But if you're here only for a day, you could call me at my office. I'll write down my office number for you right now. Wait just a second."                                                          IX

She ran into her apartment to get a pencil and some paper. As she ripped a sheet from a pad, she dropped the pencil on the floor. She got down on her hands and knees and scrambled after the rolling pencil. Finally she grabbed the pencil and then quickly wrote her name and office phone number.

Steve watched her sadly. Even before she handed him the piece of paper, he knew that her handwriting would be the same as the handwriting on the phone booth walls.

(After R.Marmorstein)

1 drugstore ['drag ‘sto:] амер. аптека

2 quite a chick [tjik] зд. классная девчонка

3 Chicago [Ji'kaigau] Чикаго

4 Gamble ['gaembl] зд.Рискни

5 knew her way around with men умела обращаться с мужчинами

6 blind date [.blaind 'deit] свидание вслепую(с человеком, которого раньше не видел)                      IX

                                                                        TEXT   TEN

                                                          THE MODEL MILLIONAIRE

If you are not wealthy there is no use in being a charming fellow. Romance is the privilege of the rich, not the profession of the unemployed. The poor should be practical and prosaic. It is better to have a permanent income than to be charming. These are the great truths of modern life which Hughie Erskine never realized. Poor Hughie! He was wonderfully good-looking, but poor.

To make matters worse, he was in love. The girl he loved was Laura Merton, the daughter of a retired colonel. Laura adored him, and he was ready to kiss her shoestrings.

They were the handsomest couple in London, and had not a penny between them. The Colonel was very fond of Hughie, but would not hear of any engagement.

"Come to me, my boy, when you have got ten thousand pounds of your own, and we'll see about it," he used to say; and that made Hughie very unhappy.

One morning, as he was on his way to Holland Park, where the Mertons lived, he dropped to see his friend Alan Trevor, a painter.

When Hughie came in he found Trevor putting the finishing touches to a wonderful life-size picture of a beggar-man. The beggar himself was standing on a raised platform in a corner of the studio. He was a wizened old man, wit!) a wrinkled face, and a most piteous expression.

"What an amazing model!" whispered Hughie, as he shook hands with his friend.

"An amazing model?" cried Trevor. "I should think so! You don't meet such beggars every day. What an etching Rembrandt would have made of him!"

"Poor old man!" said Hughie, "how miserable he looks!"

"Certainly," replied Trevor, "you don't want a beggar to look happy, do you?"

At this moment the servant came in, and told Trevor that the frame maker wanted to speak to him.

"Don't run away, Hughie," he said, as he went out, "I'll be back in a moment."

The old beggar-man took advantage of Trevor's absence to rest for a moment on a wooden bench that was behind him. He looked so miserable that Hughie could not help pitying him, and felt in his pockets to see what money he had. All he could find was a sovereign and some coppers. "Poor old fellow," he thought to himself, "he wants it more than I do", and he walked across the studio and slipped the sovereign into the beggar's hand.

The old man got up, and a faint smile appeared on his lips. "Thank you, sir," he said, "thank you."

Then Trevor arrived, and Hughie took his leave, blushing a little at what he had done.

The next day he met Trevor again.

"Well, Alan, is your picture finished?" he asked.

"Finished and framed, my boy!" answered Trevor. "By the way, the old model you saw is quite devoted to you. I had to tell him all about you — who you are, where you live. What your income is, what prospects you have — "

"My dear Alan," cried Hughie, "I'll probably find him waiting for me when I go home. But of course, you are only joking.

Poor old man! I wish I could do something for him. I have heaps of old clothes at home — do you think he would care for them? His rags were falling to bits."

"But he looks splendid in them," said Trevor. "I wouldn't paint him in a frock coat for anything. What you call rags I call romance. However, I'll tell him of your offer."

"And now tell me how Laura is," said Trevor. "The old model was quite interested in her."

"You don't mean to say you talked to him about her?" said Hughie.

"Certainly I did. He knows all about the retired colonel, the lovely Laura, and the 10,000 pounds."

"You told that old beggar all my private affairs?" cried Hughie, looking very red and angry.

"My dear boy," said Trevor, smiling, "That old beggar, as you call him, is one of the richest men in Europe. He has a house in every capital, dines off gold plate, and could buy all London tomorrow if he wished."

"What on earth do you mean?" exclaimed Hughie.

"What I say," said Trevor. "The old man you saw in the studio is Baron Hausberg. He is a great friend of mine, buys all my pictures, and he paid me a month ago to paint him as a beggar."

"Baron Hausberg!" cried Hughie.

"Good heavens! I gave him a sovereign!"

"Gave him a sovereign!" cried Trevor, and he burst into laughter. "My dear boy, you'll never see it again."

, Hughie walked home, feeling very unhappy, and leaving Alan Trevor in fits of laughter.

The next morning, as he was at breakfast, the servant handed him an envelope.

On the outside was written, "A wedding present to Hughie Erskine and Laura Merton, from an old beggar," and inside was a cheque for 10,000 pounds.

When they were married Alan Trevor was the best man, and the Baron made a speech at the wedding breakfast.                

                        (After O. Wilde)

1 Hughie Erskine [,hju:i siskin]

2 Laura Merton [,lo:ra 'тз:1п]                                                                                                                             X

3 Baron Hausberg [,Ьзегэп 'hausbaig

4 best man шафер, свидетель на свадьбе