Деймон Раньон - «Тобиас Ужасный» и другие рассказы

When the turkey finally comes on, and is split in two halves right down the middle, Miss Violette Shumberger looks greatly disappointed, and she speaks for the first time as follows:

"Why," she says, "where is the stuffing?"

Well, it seems that nobody mentions any stuffing for the turkey to the chef, so he does not make any stuffing, and Miss Violette Shumberger's disappointment is so plain to be seen that the confidence of the Boston characters is somewhat shaken. They can see that Miss Violette Shumberger is really quite an eater.

In fact, Joel Duffle looks quite startled when he observes Miss Violette Shumberger's disappointment, and he gazes at her with great respect as she disposes of her share of the turkey, and the mashed potatoes, and one thing and another in such a manner that she moves up on the pumpkin pie on dead even terms with him. In fact, there is little to choose between them at this point, although the judge from Baltimore is calling the attention of the other judges to a turkey leg that he claims Miss Violette Shumberger does not clean as neatly as Joel Duffle does his, but the other judges dismiss this as a technicality. Then the waiters bring on the pumpkin pie, and it is without doubt quite a large pie, and I can see that Joel Duffle is observing this pie with a strange expression on his face.

Well, the pie is cut in two dead center, and one half is placed before Miss Violette Shumberger and the other half before Joel Duffle, and he does not take more than two bites before I see him loosen his waistband and take a big swig of water, and I think to myself, he is now down to a slow walk, and the pie will decide the whole heat, and I am only wishing I am able to wager a little more dough on Miss Violette Shumberger. But about this moment, and before she as much as touches her pie, all of a sudden Violette turns her head and motions to Nicely–Nicely to approach her, and as he approaches, she whispers in his ear.

Now at this, the Boston character by the name of Conway jumps up and claims a fouland several other Boston characters join him in this claim, and so does Joel Duffle, although afterwards even the Boston characters admit that Joel Duffle is no gentleman to make such a claim against a lady.

Well, there is some confusion over this, and the judges hold a conference, and they rulethat there is certainly no foul in the actual eating that they can see, because Miss Violette Shumberger does not touch her pie so far.

But they say that whether it is a foul otherwise all depends on whether Miss Violette Shumberger is requesting advice on the contest from Nicely–Nicely and they wish to know if Nicely–Nicely will kindly relate what passes between him and Violette so they may make a decision.

"Why," Nicely–Nicely says, "all she asks me is can I get her another piece of pie when she finishes the one in front of her."

Now at this, Joel Duffle throws down his knife, and pushes back his plate with all but two bites of his pie left on it, and says to the Boston characters like this:

"Gentlemen," he says, "I am licked. I cannot eat another mouthful. You must admit I put up a game battle, but," he says, "it is useless for me to go on against this lady who is asking for more pie before she even starts on what is before her. I am almost dying as it is, and I do not wish to destroy myself in a hopeless effort. Gentlemen," he says, "she is not human."

Well, of course this amounts to throwing in the old napkin and Nicely–Nicely stands up on his chair, and says:

"Three cheers for Miss Violette Shumberger!"

Then Nicely–Nicely gives the first cheer in person, but the effort overtaxes his strength, and he falls off the chair in a faint just as Joel Duffle collapses under the table, and the doctors at the Clinic Hospital are greatly baffled to receive, from the same address at the same time, one patient who is suffering from undernourishment, and another patient who is unconscious from overeating.

Well, in the meantime, after the excitement subsides, and wagers are settled, we 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

contractorподрядчик

aleing himself up здесь накачиваться элем

beezer здесь нос

boff здесь удар

outeatпереесть (съесть больше, чем оппонент)

one and allвсе

request him to let them miss him здесь попросить его исчезнуть

greatest eater aliveсамый сильный едок из ныне живущих

wagerставка (у букмекеров)

taps out здесь потратил всю наличность

forfeit здесь безвозвратный залог в случае нарушения условий

betставка, 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

courseблюдо (не посуда, а еда)

termусловие (договора)

toss a coinбросить монету (в качестве жребия)

gallonгаллон (мера жидкости примерно 3,8 л)

clam здесь моллюск

poundфунт (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 tieв случае ничьей

to eat it off immediately on ham and eggs здесь решить спор немедленно поеданием яичницы с ветчиной

ounceунция (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 foulзаявить 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.

(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 dayat 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, he is a young guy and he is wearing a suit of clothes the color of French mustard, with slanting pockets, and I notice when he comes in that he has a brown hat on his noggin. Anybody can see that this guy does not belong in these parts, with such a sad look and especially with such a hat.

Naturally, I figure his crying is some kind of a dodge. In fact, I figure that maybe the guy is trying to cry me out of the price of his Hungarian goulash, although if he takes the trouble to ask anybody before he comes in, he will learn that he may just as well try to cry something out of a lamppost.

But the guy does not say anything whatever to me but just goes on shedding tears into his goulash, and finally I get very curious about this proposition, and I speak to him as follows: