one basket(一个篮子)-第12节
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little air that she had been strumming at the piano the evening before；
having bought it downtown that same afternoon。 It had struck Orville's
fancy； and she had played it over and over for him。 Her right forefinger
was playing the entire tune； and something in the back of her head was
following it accurately； though the separate thinking process was going on
just the same。 Her eyes were bright； and wide； and hot。 Suddenly she
became conscious of the musical antics of her finger。 She folded it in
with its mates； so that her hand became a fist。 She stood up and stared
down at the clutter of the breakfast table。 The eggthat fateful second
egghad congealed to a mottled mess of yellow and white。 The spoon
lay on the cloth。 His coffee； only half consumed； showed tan with a cold
gray film over it。 A slice of toast at the left of his plate seemed to grin at
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her with the semi…circular wedge that he had bitten out of it。
Terry stared down at these congealing remnants。 Then she laughed； a
hard high little laugh； pushed a plate away contemptuously with her hand；
and walked into the sitting room。 On the piano was the piece of music
（Bennie Gottschalk's great song hit； 〃Hicky Boola〃） which she had been
playing the night before。 She picked it up； tore it straight across； once；
placed the pieces back to back； and tore it across again。 Then she
dropped the pieces to the floor。
〃You bet I'm going；〃 she said； as though concluding a train of thought。
〃You just bet I'm going。 Right now！〃 And Terry went。 She went for
much the same reason as that given by the ladye of high degree in the old
English songshe who had left her lord and bed and board to go with the
raggle…taggle gipsies…O！ The thing that was sending Terry Platt away
was much more than a conjugal quarrel precipitated by a soft…boiled egg
and a flap of the arm。 It went so deep that it is necessary to delve back to
the days when Theresa Platt was Terry Sheehan to get the real significance
of it； and of the things she did after she went。
When Mrs。 Orville Platt had been Terry Sheehan； she had played the
piano； afternoons and evenings； in the orchestra of the Bijou Theater； on
Cass Street； Wetona； Wisconsin。 Anyone with a name like Terry Sheehan
would； perforce； do well anything she might set out to do。 There was
nothing of genius in Terry； but there was something of fire； and much that
was Irish。 Which meant that the Watson Team； Eccentric Song and
Dance Artists； never needed a rehearsal when they played the Bijou。
Ruby Watson used merely to approach Terry before the Monday
performance； sheet music in hand； and say； 〃Listen； dearie。 We've got
some new business I want to wise you to。 Right here it goes ‘TUM dee…
dee DUM dee…dee TUM DUM DUM。' See？ Like that。 And then Jim
vamps。 Get me？〃
Terry； at the piano； would pucker her pretty brow a moment。 Then；
〃Like this； you mean？〃
〃That's it！ You've got it。〃
〃All right。 I'll tell the drum。〃
She could play any tune by ear； once heard。 She got the spirit of a
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thing； and transmitted it。 When Terry played a martial number you
tapped the floor with your foot； and unconsciously straightened your
shoulders。 When she played a home…and…mother song you hoped that the
man next to you didn't know you were crying （which he probably didn't；
because he was weeping； too）。
At that time motion pictures had not attained their present virulence。
Vaudeville； polite or otherwise； had not yet been crowded out by the
ubiquitous film。 The Bijou offered entertainment of the cigar…box…tramp
variety； interspersed with trick bicyclists； soubrettes in slightly soiled pink；
trained seals； and Family Fours with lumpy legs who tossed each other
about and struck Goldbergian attitudes。
Contact with these gave Terry Sheehan a semiprofessional tone。 The
more conservative of her townspeople looked at her askance。 There
never had been an evil thing about Terry； but Wetona considered her rather
fly。 Terry's hair was very black； and she had a fondness for those little；
close…fitting scarlet turbans。 Terry's mother had died when the girl was
eight； and Terry's father had been what is known as easygoing。 A good…
natured； lovable； shiftless chap in the contracting business。 He drove
around Wetona in a sagging； one…seated cart and never made any money
because he did honest work and charged as little for it as men who did not。
His mortar stuck； and his bricks did not crumble； and his lumber did not
crack。 Riches are not acquired in the contracting business in that way。 Ed
Sheehan and his daughter were great friends。 When he died （she was
nineteen） they say she screamed once； like a banshee； and dropped to the
floor。
After they had straightened out the muddle of books in Ed Sheehan's
gritty； dusty little office Terry turned her piano…playing talent to practical
account。 At twenty…one she was still playing at the Bijou； and into her
face was creeping the first hint of that look of sophistication which comes
from daily contact with the artificial world of the footlights。
There are； in a small Midwest town like Wetona； just two kinds of girls。
Those who go downtown Saturday nights； and those who don't。 Terry； if
she had not been busy with her job at the Bijou； would have come in the
first group。 She craved excitement。 There was little chance to satisfy
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such craving in Wetona； but she managed to find certain means。 The
traveling men from the Burke House just across the street used to drop in
at the Bijou for an evening's entertainment。 They usually sat well toward
the front； and Terry's expert playing； and the gloss of her black hair； and
her piquant profile as she sometimes looked up toward the stage for a
signal from one of the performers caught their fancy； and held it。
She found herself； at the end of a year or two； with a rather large
acquaintance among these peripatetic gentlemen。 You occasionally saw
one of them strolling home with her。 Sometimes she went driving with
one of them of a Sunday afternoon。 And she rather enjoyed taking
Sunday dinner at the Burke Hotel with a favored friend。 She thought
those small…town hotel Sunday dinners the last word in elegance。 The
roast course was always accompanied by an aqueous； semifrozen
concoction which the bill of fare revealed as Roman Punch。 It added a
royal touch to the repast； even when served with roast pork。
Terry was twenty…two when Orville Platt； making his initial Wisconsin
trip for the wholesale grocery house he represented； first beheld her
piquant Irish profile； and heard her deft manipulation of the keys。 Orville
had the fat man's sense of rhythm and love of music。 He had a buttery
tenor voice； too； of which he was rather proud。
He spent three days in Wetona that first trip； and every evening saw
him at the Bijou； first row； center。 He stayed through two shows each
time； and before he had been there fifteen minutes Terry was conscious of
him through the back of her head。 Orville Platt paid no more heed to the
stage； and what was occurring thereon； than if it had not been。 He sat
looking at Terry； and waggling his head in time to the music。 Not that
Terry was a beauty。 But she was one of those immaculately clean types。
That look of fragrant cleanliness was her chief charm。 Her clear； smooth
skin contributed to it； and the natural penciling
