by Roy L. Mangum
For 22 years Mark Melcher had walked from his drugstore to his house at exactly 5 o'clock. Methodical Mark was. For 22 years he had been greeted respectfully along the way by men and women who had grown old with him. Dignified Mark was. For 22 years he had stopped to pat the heads of children and give them penny candies. Kindly Mark was. "Wouldn't hurt a fly," as Bob Barstow, the sheriff, often said.
Mark was Willowville's best-loved citizen, all right. People came to him with their troubles. Behind his old, dusty prescription counter he listened to the secrets of human beings who trusted him. He had a way about him, Mark had, so that you listened to his advice, and carried it out, and found yourself the better for it.
Emily Holden was a mighty pretty girl of about 22. The schoolteacher, and a good one. Even the pupils liked her. She had come to Willowville early in September and by Christmas she was dead in love with Andrew Fellows.
Old Man Fellows – he wasn't so very old, though, come to think of it — was the richest man in town and a head of school board. So, naturally, he saw a lot of Emily Holden. She went up to his house now and then to talk over school mailers and it was plain to see, after a spell, that she was gone over him. Not just in love, yon understand, but, crazy about him - like some women get over a man.
Well, Emily came into Mark Melcher's drugstore one day and got behind the prescription counter and began to talk on something awful. Mark listened to her story, and while she was telling it his eyes got, to looking mighty ugly.
"And you say Andrew Fellows is the man?” the demanded when she got through.
"Oh, I have been such a fool!" Emily sobbed. "But I loved him so, and he promised to marry me. And now he threatens to tell something he says he knows about me, Mr. Melcher. Something he says is terrible. Oh, what, shall I do, Mr. Melcher?"
Mark put, his arms around Emily Holden and held her close and cried. It was awful. Pretty soon he pulled himself together and went to the hank and cashed a fat check. Then he came back and gave Emily the money.
"You go," he said, "to this address" - he gave her the name of somebody in New York - "and tell the lady there all about it. Tell her Mark Melcher sent you. And don’t you ever come back to Willowville, Emily."
Emily insisted she wouldn't take the money, of course. But Mark just look her in his arms and kissed her mighty tenderly and made her do it. Then, when she was gone, he got behind his prescription counter again and waited.
He had made up his mind to kill Old Man Fellows, to confess, and to let them hang him if they wanted to.
Pretty soon Old Man Fellows came in to ask for some of the eyewash he usually bought.
"Got a new kind, Andrew," Mark said slowly. "Smells nice, too."
He went behind the counter and got a half ounce of prussic acid. The pure stuff, undiluted. Then he let Old Man Fellows take a little whiff of it.
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"Smells soil of like peach blossoms." said Old Man Follows "
"It's nice," said Mark, "and just as good for the eyes as it smells. I've only got this much, but I’ll let you have it, same price as the other."
Old Man Fellows smiled. Mark did, too, for he knew that a single drop of pure prussic acid inside the eye would kill Old Man Fellows almost as quick as lightning.
Old Man Fellows paid over his money and started to leave. It was 5 o'clock, so Mark went along with him. At his house Mark turned in and bade his friend good-bye.
Early next morning the news spread like wildfire, Mrs. Thompson, Old Man Fellows' housekeeper had found him deader than a doornail when she went upstairs to see what had kept him so long before breakfast. Near her master she had found a little bottle, and gripped in Old Man Fellows' hand, so tightly that he had crushed it, an eyedropper.
At 5 o'clock that afternoon Mark Melcher closed his store, locked it, and walked over to the sheriff's office. He was going to confess, and clear his conscience, and make his peace with God, even if they hanged him for it. He didn't care now what happened.
"Bob," he said to the sheriff, "I've come to give myself up. I killed Andrew Fellows."
The sheriff started to laugh, but one look at Mark's eyes stopped him. Wild-looking and sort of glassy they were - like crazy people's eyes. The sheriff told Mark to sit down and went outside for a minute to whisper something to his deputy.
"Mark Melcher's going crazy," he said. "He thinks he's killed Old Man Fellows. Can you beat it? Why. Mark wouldn't hurt a fly. Too bad! They were friends for years, those two. Guess it must have hit Mark pretty hard."
That news spread like wildfire, too. Mark Melcher had gone kind of crazy over Old Man Fellows' death! Wasn't it, a shame. And Mark such a fine man. So sympathetic. Too sympathetic, he was, worrying himself crazy over his friend's death because he had sold him some poison. As if he could have known that Old Man Fellows was going to commit suicide, like the coroner said!
He got to wandering around Willowville, telling everybody he had killed Old Man Fellows. Folks would listen, shake their heads, and say, "That's too bad, Mark. That's too bad." Then they would walk on. Pretty soon Mark got so he would wake up at night and scream. His housekeeper left him.
They put Mark away in Doe Smith’s sanatorium. Everybody says it's too bad and they can't imagine how Mark Melcher ever got the idea that he killed Old Man Fellows.
But then, Willowville folks don't know to this day that Emily Holden was Mark Melcher"? daughter, that Mark had never been married, and that Old Man Fellows was the only human being on earth who knew those things.
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(Famous Short Stories compiled by Frank C. Platt. New York)
Reproduction 6 Cry-baby
by John McClain
It was almost midnight before they got around to giving the Oscars to the really well-known personalities. A series of guest stars had awarded the prizes to the best scenic designer, to the best special-effects man, for the beet technical invention for motion pictures during the year and to all the other people, so anonymous outside the industry so important within it.
Now they were giving out the prize for the best camera work, and tension was beginning to mount. The man from the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences handed the sealed envelope to the well-known director who had been called up to announce the winner. The paper crackled in the microphone as he tore it open. He paused deliberately for several minutes, teasing the audience, then announced the result. There was hearty applause as the winner started for the stage to accept his statuette.
I looked around the theatre, recognizing most of the important faces in the business, but not caring much. You see, I was plenty nervous. Myra Caldwell, whom I had brought to the proceedings, was sitting there beside me, and right across the aisle was Joan Weyland. Now, to get the picture properly, you have to remember that during that particular year Myra had played the sensational supporting role in The Devil Loses and had been acclaimed practically the greatest find in the history of pictures. But that was the same year that Joan Weyland had stolen a big picture called Calumet Centre right out from under the nose of one of the most terrific female stars in the industry. The only other actress nominated was not given much chance. Now in a few minutes, they were going to announce who had won the Oscar for the Best Supporting Actress of the year. It was a hottest Contest and everybody knew it. Furthermore, it was no secret that the two leading contestants would have been delighted to boil each other in oil — win, lose, or draw. And here they were across the aisle from each other. Do you get why I was nervous?
They were giving out the writers' awards and I was mopping my forehead frequently with a damp handkerchief, when Myra turned to me and said in a voice that carried farther than the first, rows:
"Look at, Joan. Isn't she ugly tonight?" I tried to hush her, but it was no good. Several rows of people had heard her and there was a stifled titter. Joan looked across the aisle and glared. Apparently she hadn't caught the words, but she knew they weren't, exactly flattering.
Then the lights went down. They were going to run short excerpts from the pictures for which the actors and actresses had been nominated. The supporting-actress pictures were coming on, and here was Joan Weyland in her big scene from Calumet Centre. The audience started to applaud as soon as they saw her.
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After that they ran a short scene from Whirlwind, featuring the other nominee, a refugee actress called Tanya Braden. I had never seen the picture of the actress, and the picture hadn't made much money — but, boy,1 there was no doubt she could act! She played the star's mother and she made you believe it.
Then they ran Myra's big moment in The Devil Loses. After it was over I tried to figure 2 who got the biggest hand, but it sounded to me, in my weakened condition, like a dead heat.
"I think I won," Myra said to me.
The lights went up. The elderly actor who had won the Supporting Actor award the year before came through the curtains and prepared to make the award. I didn't see how I was going to live through the next few minutes. He got the envelope from the auditor and very slowly tore it open. He was loving every second of it, the old man. Then he looked at the little piece of paper.
"The Winner," he said, then paused again, "is Miss Tanya Braden, for her performance in Whirlwind."
Well, I'm not too sure about the sequence of events that followed. I don't remember the applause, because Joan let out a screech from across the aisle that drowned out everything else. Then Myra started to cry. I don't mean cry like the ordinary person, but I mean cry so that the building shook.
Then Joan got up and started out, and her mother went with her. But I couldn't do anything with Myra. The show was stopped cold and the whole theatre was looking at her. I picked her up and carried her out.
It wasn't a very pleasant performance, all in all, but I think there is some excuse. After all, Joan is 8 years old, and Myra is only 6, and she isn't used to being up so late. I'm a little on her side anyway. And why not? I'm her father.
(from Famous Short Stories compiled by Frank C. Platt. New York)
1 but, boy — Am., exclamation of surprise.
2 to figure — Am., to guess.
Business English
Test 1 Письмо-запрос
Вы - г-жа Виктория Семенова, управляющий директор крупного универмага «Мир», расположенного по адресу: ул. Пушкина 121, г.Электросталь, Московская область.
Из последнего номера журнала «Bazaar» Вы узнали, что итальянская фирма «Merkury» (адрес: Via Massarenti 190, 40138 Bologna (BO), Italy) производит на экспорт обувь и перчатки ручной работы из натуральной кожи.
У Вас есть постоянный спрос на высококачественный товар такого рода, особенно светлых тонов. Объем продаж не очень большой, но за модную модель можно получить хорошую цену.
Вы просите прислать Вам каталоги с полной информацией относительно экспертных цен, условий платежа, а также некоторые образцы изделий на их усмотрение.
Заранее поблагодарите за скорый ответ. Заключительная формула вежливости.