take Miss Violette Shumberger to the main floor in Mindy's for a midnight snack, and when she speaks of her wonderful triumph, she is disposed to give much credit to Nicely–Nicely Jones.
"You see," Violette says, "what I really whisper to him is that I am a goner. I whisper to him that I cannot possibly take one bite of the pie if my life depends on it.
"I fear," she says, "that Nicely–Nicely will be greatly disappointed in my showing, but I have a confession to make to him when he gets out of the hospital. I forget about the contest," Violette says, "and eat my regular dinner of pig's knuckles and sauerkraut an hour before the contest starts and," she says, "I have no doubt this tends to affect my form somewhat. So," she says, "I owe everything to Nicely–Nicely's quick thinking."
It is several weeks after the great eating contest that I run into Miss Hilda Slocum on Broadway and it seems to me that she looks much better nourished than the last time I see her, and when I mention this she says:
"Yes," she says, "I stopped dieting. I learn my lesson," she says. "I learn that male characters do not appreciate anybody who tries to ward off surplus tissue. What male characters wish is substance. Why," she says, "only a week ago my editor, Mr. McBurgle, tells me he will love to take me dancing if only I get something on me for him to take hold of. I am very fond of dancing," she says.
"But," I say, "what of Nicely–Nicely Jones? I do not see him around lately."
"Why," Miss Hilda Slocum says, "do you not hear what this cad does? Why, as soon as he is strong enough to leave the hospital, he elopes with my dearest friend, Miss Violette Shumberger, leaving me a note saying something about two souls with but a single thought. They are down in Florida running a barbecue stand."
"Miss Slocum," I say, "can I interest you in a portion of Mindy's chicken fricassee?"
"With dumplings?" Miss Hilda Slocum says. "Yes," she says, "Of course you can. And afterwards I have a dancing date with Mr. McBurgle. I am crazy about dancing," she says.
СЛОВАРИК
contractor подрядчик
aleing himself up здесь накачиваться элем
beezer здесь нос
boff здесь удар
outeat переесть (съесть больше, чем оппонент)
one and all все
request him to let them miss him здесь попросить его исчезнуть
greatest eater alive самый сильный едок из ныне живущих
wager ставка (у букмекеров)
taps out здесь потратил всю наличность
forfeit здесь безвозвратный залог в случае нарушения условий
bet ставка, делать ставку
sporting instincts здесь спортивный азарт
he may give the elephant a photo finish здесь возможно, победителя пришлось бы определять с помощью фотофиниша
belongs up there as a contender здесь находится на очень высоком уровне среди претендентов на победу
meet = meeting
blats здесь слухи, разговоры
a 6 to 5 favorite over здесь соотношение ставок у букмекеров 6 к 5 в пользу
course блюдо (не посуда, а еда)
term условие (договора)
toss a coin бросить монету (в качестве жребия)
gallon галлон (мера жидкости примерно 3,8 л)
clam здесь моллюск
pound фунт (мера веса примерно 4,5 кг)
ears of corn on the cob здесь варёная кукуруза в початках
loose chewings здесь мелкие кусочки/крошки пищи, которая падает во время еды
in case of a tie в случае ничьей
to eat it off immediately on ham and eggs здесь решить спор немедленно поеданием яичницы с ветчиной
ounce унция (мера веса примерно в 30 граммов)
rooting здесь поддержка, подсказка
outs with his watch здесь доставать часы
heat здесь состязание, схватка
rule здесь выносить решение (о суде)
claim a foul заявить о грязной игре
ВОПРОСЫ И ЗАДАНИЯ
How does the story begin?
What kind of contest was organized?
Can you describe the way the contest was discussed?
Did you happen to see any contests like this?
Why do you think the story was titled like this?
Read aloud and translate any paragraph you like.
Tobias the Terrible*
(3423 words)
One night I am sitting in Mindy's restaurant on Broadway partaking heartily of some Hungarian goulash which comes very nice in Mindy's, what with the chef being personally somewhat Hungarian himself, when in pops a guy who is a stranger to me and sits down at my table.
I do not pay any attention to the guy at first as I am busy looking over the entries for the next day at Laurel, but I hear him tell the waiter to bring him some goulash, too. By and by I hear the guy making a strange noise and I look at him over my paper and see that he is crying. In fact, large tears are rolling down his face into his goulash and going plop–plop as they fall.
Now it is by no means usual to see guys crying in Mindy's restaurant, though thousands of guys come in there who often feel like crying, especially after a tough day at the track, so I commence weighing the guy up with great interest. I can see he is a very little guy, maybe a shade over five feet high and weighing maybe as much as a dime's worth of liver, and he has a mustache like a mosquito's whiskers across his upper lip, and pale blond hair and a very sad look in his eyes.
Furthermore,