評論
打印
[11] The kindly customer hurried to the door to look, as anyone will. Struck with sudden inspiration, Miss Martha seized the occasion so opportunely offered. On the bottom shelf behind the counter was a pound of fresh butter left by the dairyman minutes before. With a bread knife Miss Martha quickly made a deep slash in each of the stale loaves, inserted a generous quantity of butter, and pressed the loaves tight again. When the gentleman turned back to the counter, she was tying the paper around them as usual.
[12] When he had gone, after an unusually pleasant little chat, Miss Martha smiled to herself. She was pleased with her daring and generous impulse, but her heart was fluttering in anxiety. Had she been to bold? Would he take offense? Surely he would not; there was no language of edibles, and butter was no emblem of unmaidenly forwardness.
[13] For a long time that day her mind dwelt on the imagined scene when he should discover her little deception. Probably he would lay down his brushes and palette and stand by his easel with the picture he was painting--the perspective, of course, would be beyond criticism. Then he would prepare for his luncheon of dry bread and water; he would slice into the loaf--ah! Miss Martha blushed at the thought. Would he think of the hand that placed it there as he ate? Would he...
[14] The front door bell jangled viciously, interrupting the delightful speculations. Miss Martha sighed and hurried to the front, because somebody was making a great deal of noise. Two men were standing before the showcase. One was a young man smoking a pipe (she had never seen him before), and the other was the kindly, poverty-stricken artist for whom her sympathetic heart had interceded only this morning.
[15] He did not look or act like his usual self--his face was very red, his hat was on the back of his head, his hair was wildly rumpled. He clenched his fists tightly and shook them ferociously at Miss Martha. At Miss Martha!
[16] "Dummkopf!" he shouted with extreme loudness. He made a bass drum of Miss Martha's counter. "You haf shpoilt me," he cried, his blue eyes blazing angrily behind his spectacles. "I vill tell you, you vas von meddingsome old cat!"
[17] Miss Martha leaned weakly against the showcase, one hand on her best blue-dotted silk shirtwaist as the pipe-smoking stranger gripped the shouting customer by the collar.
[18] "Come on, you've said enough." He dragged the irate fellow to the door, and then he turned again to Miss Martha.
[19] "Guess you ought to be told, ma'am-that's Blumberger. He's an architectural draftsman in the office where I work. He's been working hard for three months drawing a plan for a new city hall. He was going to enter it in a prize competition; he finished inking in the lines yesterday. You know, a draftsman always makes his drawing in pencil first, and when it's done he rubs out the pencil lines with stale bread crumbs.
[20] "Blumberger's been buying the bread here. Well, today--well, you know, ma'am, that butter isn't--well, Blumberger's plan isn't good for anything now."
[21] Miss Martha Meacham went into the back room, took off the blue-dotted silk waist, and put on the old brown serge one; then she returned to sit before the counter.
