one basket(一个篮子)-第32节
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didn't I？ It was me。 I didn't care。 Seemed to me it didn't make no
difference who I went with； but it does。〃 She looked down at her hands
clasped so tightly in her lap。
〃Yes； it makes a whole lot of difference；〃 Angie agreed； and looked up
at her father。
At that Tessie blurted her last desperate problem： 〃He's learning all
kind of new things。 Me； I ain't learning anything。 When Chuck comes
home he'll just think I'm dumb； that's all。 He〃
〃What kind of thing would you like to learn； Tessie； so that when
Chuck comes home〃
Tessie looked up then； her wide mouth quivering with eagerness。 〃I'd
like to learn to swimand row a boatand play tennislike the rich girls
like the girls that's making such a fuss over the soldiers。〃
Angie Hatton was not laughing。 So； after a moment's hesitation；
Tessie brought out the worst of it。 〃And French。 I'd like to learn to talk
French。〃
Old Man Hatton had been surveying his shoes； his mouth grim。 He
looked at Angie now and smiled a little。 〃Well； Angie； it looks as if you'd
found your job right here at home； doesn't it？ This young lady's just one
of hundreds； I suppose。 Thousands。 You can have the whole house for
them； if you want it； Angie； and the grounds； and all the money you need。
I guess we've kind of overlooked the girls。 Hm； Angie？ What d'you
say？〃
But Tessie was not listening。 She had scarcely heard。 Her face was
white with earnestness。
〃Can you speak French？〃
〃Yes；〃 Angie answered。
〃Well；〃 said Tessie； and gulped once； 〃well； how do you say in French：
‘Give me a piece of bread'？ That's what I want to learn first。〃
Angie Hatton said it correctly。
〃That's it！ Wait a minute！ Say it again； will you？〃
Angie said it again； Tessie wet her lips。 Her cheeks were smeared
with tears and dirt。 Her hair was wild and her blouse awry。
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〃DONNAY…MA…UN…MORSO…DOO…PANG；〃 she articulated painfully。
And in that moment； as she put her hand in that of Chuck Mory； across the
ocean； her face was very beautiful with contentment。
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Long Distance ＇1919＇
Chet Ball was painting a wooden chicken yellow。 The wooden
chicken was mounted on a six…by…twelve board。 The board was mounted
on four tiny wheels。 The whole would eventually be pulled on a string
guided by the plump； moist hand of some blissful five…year…old。
You got the incongruity of it the instant your eye fell upon Chet Ball。
Chet's shoulders alone would have loomed large in contrast with any
wooden toy ever devised； including the Trojan horse。 Everything about
him； from the big； blunt…fingered hands that held the ridiculous chick to
the great muscular pillar of his neck； was in direct opposition to his task；
his surroundings； and his attitude。
Chet's proper milieu was Chicago； Illinois （the West Side）； his job that
of lineman for the Gas； Light & Power Company； his normal working
position astride the top of a telegraph pole； supported in his perilous perch
by a lineman's leather belt and the kindly fates； both of which are likely to
trick you in an emergency。
Yet now he lolled back among his pillows； dabbing complacently at
the absurd yellow toy。 A description of his surroundings would sound
like pages 3 to 17 of a novel by Mrs。 Humphry Ward。 The place was all
greensward； and terraces； and sundials； and beeches； and even those
rhododendrons without which no English novel or country estate is
complete。 The presence of Chet Ball among his pillows and some
hundreds similarly disposed revealed to you at once the fact that this
particular English estate was now transformed into Reconstruction
Hospital No。 9。
The painting of the chicken quite finished （including two beady black
paint eyes）； Chet was momentarily at a loss。 Miss Kate had not told him
to stop painting when the chicken was completed。 Miss Kate was at the
other end of the sunny garden walk； bending over a wheel chair。 So Chet
went on painting； placidly。 One by one； with meticulous nicety； he
painted all his fingernails a bright and cheery yellow。 Then he did the
whole of his left thumb and was starting on the second joint of the index
finger when Miss Kate came up behind him and took the brush gently
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from his strong hands。
〃You shouldn't have painted your fingers；〃 she said。
Chet surveyed them with pride。 〃They look swell。〃
Miss Kate did not argue the point。 She put the freshly painted
wooden chicken on the table to dry in the sun。 Her eyes fell upon a letter
bearing an American postmark and addressed to Sergeant Chester Ball；
with a lot of cryptic figures and letters strung out after it； such as A。E。F。
and Co。 11。
〃Here's a letter for you！〃 She infused a lot of Glad into her voice。
But Chet only cast a languid eye upon it and said； 〃Yeh？〃
〃I'll read it to you； shall I？ It's a nice fat one。〃
Chet sat back； indifferent； negatively acquiescent。 And Miss Kate
began to read in her clear young voice； there in the sunshine and scent of
the centuries…old English garden。
It marked an epoch in Chet's lifethat letter。 It reached out across the
Atlantic Ocean from the Chester Ball of his Chicago days； before he had
even heard of English gardens。
Your true lineman has a daredevil way with the women； as have all
men whose calling is a hazardous one。 Chet was a crack workman。 He
could shinny up a pole； strap his emergency belt； open his tool kit； wield
his pliers with expert deftness； and climb down again in record time。 It
was his pleasureand seemingly the pleasure and privilege of all lineman's
gangs the world overto whistle blithely and to call impudently to any
passing petticoat that caught his fancy。
Perched three feet from the top of the high pole he would cling
protected； seemingly； by some force working in direct defiance of the law
of gravity。 And now and then； by way of brightening the tedium of their
job； he and his gang would call to a girl passing in the street below； 〃Hoo…
hoo！ Hello； sweetheart！〃
There was nothing vicious in it。 Chet would have come to the aid of
beauty in distress as quickly as Don Quixote。 Any man with a blue shirt
as clean and a shave as smooth and a haircut as round as Chet Ball's has
no meanness in him。 A certain daredeviltry went hand in hand with his
worka calling in which a careless load dispatcher； a cut wire； or a faulty
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strap may mean instant death。 Usually the girls laughed and called back
to them or went on more quickly； the color in their cheeks a little higher。
But not Anastasia Rourke。 Early the first morning of a two…week job
on the new plant of the Western Castings Company； Chet Ball； glancing
down from his dizzy perch atop an electric…light pole； espied Miss
Anastasia Rourke going to work。 He didn't know her name or anything
about her； except that she was pretty。 You could see that from a distance
even more remote than Chet's。 But you couldn't know that Stasia was a
lady not to be trifled with。 We know her name was Rourke； but he didn't。
So then： 〃Hoo…hoo！〃 he had called。 〃Hello； sweetheart！ Wait for
me and I'll be down。〃
Stasia Rourke had lifted her face to where he perched so high above
the streets。 Her cheeks were five sha
