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Commentary. slick –(ам. слэнг)отличный, превосходный, что надо

slick – (ам. слэнг) отличный, превосходный, что надо

e.g. The meal was slick. Еда была что надо!

tortoise-shell hairpins – заколки для волос из черепахового панциря

chintz – мебельный ситец

plaid wool – шотландка (шерстяная ткань в шотландскую клетку)

scones – ячменная или пшеничная лепешка, булочка

M.I.T. – Massachusetts Institute of Technology

dual smokestacks – дымовая (зд. выхлопная) труба

to be worth a plugged nickel – гроша ломаного не стоить

to plead a case – вести дело в суде, защищать интересы

to beat the rap – (слэнг) избежать наказания, уйти от правосудия

Exercise 1. Practise the pronunciation of the following words:

1. inadvertently [LInRd'wR:t(R)ntlI] 5. vengeance ['vendG(R)ns]

2. prestige [pre'stI:G] 6. disparagement [dIs'pWrIdGmRnt]

3. divine [dI'vaIn] 7. vehemence ['vI:RmRns]

4. conspicuously [kRn'spIkjuRslI] 8. incredulously [In'kredjulRslI]

Exercise 2. Read the following extract:

Within the next few days, Jane became aware that Peter had managed, quite inadvertently, to give her a new prestige. Belinda, far from ridiculing him, was almost covetous of Jane’s new beau. If it hadn’t been for his performance on ice skates, perhaps he wouldn’t have been so generally accepted, but the fact of the matter was that he had got off to an exceptionally good start. His accent, instead of being thought odd, was considered intriguing, and his patched coat inspired a rash of leather elbow shields among the boys at Brookfield High.

“Of course,” Trudy said, “you’re going to bring him to the Christmas formal, I think he’s absolutely divine!”

Jane cherished Peter’s bewitchment of all her close friends, but she refused to commit herself. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m not sure. I haven’t really made up my mind.”

The Christmas formal was the Country Club dance for teen-agers, the one event of the year to which the girls always asked the boys. Since Jane’s parents, as well as Trudy’s and Polly’s and Sue’s, were members, she automatically received a couple of tickets in the mail.

When they came, the first day of December, she stuck them in her mirror and considered them from time to time. Here was one affair where she wouldn’t be subjected to Belinda’s competition, because no girl under fifteen was invited. But even if this had not been the case, Jane could have contemplated the dance with equanimity. Peter had been subjected to Linda’s charms and had emerged unscathed. Not once since meeting her he had he so much as mentioned Jane’s younger sister, though he had had plenty of opportunity.

On the Saturday night after Thanksgiving Day she and Peter had gone skating again and then on to Polly’s to pop corn and play records and dance. On Sunday, instead of meeting him on the hill, she had taken him over to Sue’s, where the gang had all congregated at about four o’clock for cokes and one of Mrs. Harvey’s famous chocolate cakes.

“Next Sunday.” Peter suggested, as they walked back to Franklin Street in the early dark, “why don’t you come home to tea with me? My aunt and uncle are interested in knowing where I’m spending my time these days.”

Jane felt a trifle abashed. “What have you told them?”

“I just explained I’d met a girl.”

“And what did they say?”

“Nothing. Except that they’d like to meet you.”

“I’d like to meet them,” Jane said slowly, wondering even as she spoke whether this was quite the truth. She felt a little frightened at the prospect. She had learned to know and like Peter. She could cope with him, but his relatives might be something else again. “Are they very British?” she asked after a minute.

“My aunt is, but my uncle is American.” Peter smiled down at her. “There’s nothing to be scared about.”

Such reassurance was pleasant, yet in spite of it Jane found herself dressing for the visit with special care. She wore a beige sweater, her best pearls, and a rather sober brown-and-tan checked skirt. When she applied lipstick it was with more than her usual discretion. She was trying to look unobtrusive and well-bred, because unconsciously she wanted to be as much of a credit to Peter as he had been to her.

When he called for her, on foot as usual, a group of Belinda’s friends were sprawled all over the living room, watching television and gossiping. She couldn’t have cared less what those youngsters back home were saying, because she and Peter were in the midst of an all-absorbing discussion – concerning Ken Sanderson.

They had met Ken right outside the house, and in response to his hello Peter had called back, “How’s business?”

“Slick,” Ken said, “It better had be. Pop’s due home next Friday.” He crossed his fingers and grinned.

Because she was conspicuously going some place with Peter, it was easy for Jane to enter the conversation casually. “I’ll pray for you nights,” she promised flippantly.

When they were out of earshot Peter said, unexpectedly, “You like that boy a lot, don’t you?”

Caught off guard, Jane didn’t take time to consider. “Ken? Heavens, no. We used to be friends when we were children, but lately he’s been acting like a complete and litter dope. I feel sort of sorry for him, but that’s all.”

“Are you sure that’s all?” Peter asked quietly.

Jane frowned. “Of course I’m sure. Why?”

“Because at Thanksgiving dinner you took such pains to ignore him.”

“Did I?” Jane shrugged. “I don’t remember, really.” This was untrue. She remembered perfectly well how sweet her little vengeance had been. “Living next door,” she tried to explain, “our families have always seen a lot of each other. And lately Ken’s been doing a bit of cradle-snatching and dating my younger sister. But now,” she rattled on, “I think even Linda’s given him the gate.” Then she felt Peter’s probing eyes upon her and was ashamed. What tag end of resentment had impelled her to discredit Ken?

“I take it he’s committed the cardinal American sin and managed to make himself unpopular,” suggested Peter, with a trace of curtness.

Annoyed at the disparagement of her country, Jane snapped, “As a matter of fact, he has.”

“How?”

The gentler tone in which this question was asked broke down her defenses, and she found herself spilling out the whole story of Ken’s devotion to his Cadillac.

Peter waited, now, without speaking, but Jane found it increasingly hard to come to the climax. “He did something pretty terrible, I suppose. He resigned from the football team, so he could keep the jobs.”

Peter grinned. “So he could keep the jobs and start a spare-parts business.”

He had instantly put his finger on the most disturbing factor in the whole case, so far as Jane was concerned. “That’s just it!” she cried. “Why did he have to do that!Oh, he’s just plain stupid!”

Amused by her vehemence, Peter said, “Stupid is one thing Ken Sanderson is not. He may be foolhardy, he may be single-minded, he may be a poor sport, but he isn’t dull. That boy has a mind for mechanics.”

“Do you think he’s a poor sport?” Jane asked, and was surprised that the question cost her an effort.

“In a way, yes,” Peter admitted. “Quitting a school team in midseason just isn’t cricket. But in another way I admire his independence. It takes courage to snap your fingers at public opinion.”

“The funny thing is, I don’t think he much cares that he’s being cold-shouldered. He’s too busy, I guess, to worry.”

“Don’t you believe it,” Peter contradicted her. “He worries, all right, but he covers it up.”

They had reached the edge of town, where sidewalks gave way to dirt paths along the roadside. Peter steered her to the left. “My uncle’s place is over there,” he said, “behind that stand of hemlock.”

Somehow, Jane had thought of Peter as living on a narrow street in the Carlinville mill district. She was surprised when he led her toward a farmhouse, settled squarely in a cleared field right over the Brookfield line. There was a barn, a fenced yard, and a flower garden laid out in neat beds which had been mulched for winter.

Peter’s aunt, who came at once to the door, was a rangy woman with a pleasant mouth and grey-streaked hair pulled severely back from her forehead and knotted in a big bun held by tortoise-shell hairpins. Peter called her Aunt Louise, but he introduced her to Jane as Mrs. Watson. She shook hands firmly and said, in an accent like Peter’s, “Won’t you come in?”

Jane’s normal timidity was routed, almost at once, by her interest in the house. Like the garden, it was unexpected. In the living-room fireplace a gas log was burning, and a round center table was laid with a lace-edged cloth and set for tea. The furniture, bulky and rather ugly, was covered in faded chintz, and the old-fashioned glass-doored bookcases were crowded with volumes which looked used and worn.

For several minutes Jane couldn’t decide whether the total effect was welcoming or forbidding, because there was a stiffness about the placement of things that was in complete contrast to the informality of her own home. But then Mr. Watson swept into the house like a breath of fresh air — a big, hard-muscled American with a ready grin and a dynamic personality that made the room come suddenly alive.

He was wearing khaki pants, a sweater which he stripped over his head and flung behind him onto a chair, and a plaid wool sport shirt. “Tea!” he boomed, rubbing his hands. Then he winked at Jane. “Women’s stuff.” But he settled down and drank three cups with cream and ate innumerable hot buttered scones, which Jane found both novel and delicious. She kept refusing the thinly sliced bread and butter in their favor, until Peter cried, “Hey, you’ll get fat!”

“Peter!” His aunt sounded shocked, but Mr. Watson laughed heartily. “This lad’s getting more American by the minute,” he said, partly to tease his wife, Jane felt sure. “By the time we send him back to school he’ll be saying ‘swell’ and getting his hair out of a braid.”

Peter made a fake pass at his uncle. Jane could see that they were good friends. She smiled in appreciative amusement, then picked a word out of the conversation. “School? I thought you were finished with school.”

The English boy shook his head. “That’s why I’m working. To earn money to go to Oxford next fall.”

“Oxford!” Jane was surprised, and showed it. Peter’s aunt looked proud, but his uncle said, “Oxford is no place for you.”

Peter didn’t speak, and his expression showed that this was an oft-repeated argument in which he didn’t want to get involved. But Jane, who didn’t happen to be looking at him, asked, “Why not?”

“Because this lad’s got a genius for mechanics. He ought to go to a place like M.I.T.”

“So that’s why you and Ken got together so quickly,” Jane murmured.

“Who’s Ken?” Mr. Watson asked.

“A boy who lives next door to me,” Jane said. “He’s crazy about old cars.”

“He has a spare-parts business in his basement,” Peter added. Then turning to Jane, he explained quickly, “Uncle Tim loves to tinker with cars. He’s just bought an old truck.”

“Old!” Mr. Watson leapt to his feet with a vigor that made the small room vibrate.

“Ken Sanderson might have some stuff you’d be interested in,” Peter told his uncle. “You ought to look that boy up.”

A little while later Peter took her home, and although the twilight cold was sharp he strolled along slowly, chatting about his Uncle Tim’s almost boyish interest in reworking cars. “It’s a pity he and Aunt Louise never had any children,” he told Jane. “What he wouldn’t have given for a son like Ken!”

Early the following evening Mr. Watson called at the Sandersons’ and bought seventy-two dollars’ worth of secondhand parts from Ken. Not until after ten o’clock did they come out of the basement. Ken, heavy-eyed but happy, was too tired to do his homework; but he had found a new friend.

* * *

At five-thirteen that same afternoon a truck crumpled the right fender of Ken Sanderson’s car, smashed a head light, and damaged the grille.

The accident took place just a few blocks east of the center of town, and a few seconds after it happened Jane arrived on the scene with Gordon, who was still discussing yearbook business as they walked home together. Ken and the truck driver were facing each other in the road, and the few passers-by who had witnessed the incident were behaving in characteristic fashion. Some, too much in a hurry to be bothered, were quickening their steps; and others – the loitering, interested type – were gathering around the Cadillac in a little group.

In the glare of the truck’s headlights Jane could see Ken’s face. It was chalky white, with the eyes dark and troubled, the cheeks hollow, like a Halloween mask. The sight shocked her far more than the crumpled fender. Where was the boy she had known, the lighthearted companion? She was looking at the face of a stranger — the lean, anxious face of a young man.

Standing in the shadow of a tree trunk, she watched the policeman make a series of careful notes in a little black book, then come around to help Ken yank at the damaged fender, which was difficult to free from the wheel.

The truck driver climbed back in his cab and shoved his gears into reverse; then, still muttering to himself, he roared off. The last of the onlookers drifted away. Ken and the policeman picked up the larger pieces of broken glass from the roadway, and still Jane waited, wishing there was something she could do.

This was the boy who had called her a stinker and meant it. This was the boy who had all but broken her spirit, who had hurt her so deeply arid remorselessly that she would never forget it; yet at this moment her heart went out to him in pity and sympathy, because the crumpled fender was the last straw. It was a sure sign of doom to the Cadillac. All Ken’s work, all his big deals, all his sacrifices, would come to nothing, because Jane knew that Mr. Sanderson could never be won over now.

The policeman got back on his motorcycle and wheeled away. With sagging shoulders, Ken tossed the glass fragments into the trunk of the car and slammed it shut.

Jane stepped out of the shadows and walked over to the Cadillac. “Ken...”

“Hi, Jane.” He looked at her wearily. “Did you see it?”

“No. I was just a minute too late.”

Ken shrugged. “It wasn’t my fault, really, but it’s too much to expect to Pop to believe that.”

“I know.” Jane opened the door of the car on the damaged side. “Will you drive me home?”

“Sure, if we can get this heap rolling.” He nudged the starter. “The front wheels may be out of line.”

Frowning in concentration, he drove a fun block without speaking. “Seems steady enough. Maybe it’s only the a fender after all.”

“What are you going to do?” Jane asked in a small voice. She felt chilly with apprehension.

Ken shook his head. “In twenty-four hours there’s not much I can, do,” he admitted. All the cockiness which had sustained him over the past few weeks had disappeared. Even in the half-light he looked beaten and exhausted. Hope had fled.

After a minute or two Jane asked, “Have you delivered all your telegrams?”

“No! I completely forgot.” He fished an envelope out of his pocket. “Look at the address on this, will you, in the dashboard light.”

“Number twenty-one Ridge Road,” Jane read.

“Want me to drop you here or will you ride along?”

“I’ll ride along, if you don’t mind,” Jane said. She was aware that Ken glanced at her curiously for a second.

She sat very quiet, thinking, while he drove to the west side of town.

He pulled up at the curb, peered at the numbers on a porch pillar, and climbed out of the car with his telegram. In a minute or so he was back.

“Any more to deliver?” Jane asked.

“Nope. That was the last. Now I’d better go home and break the bad news to Mother.” He glanced at his wrist watch and added ruefully, “Then I can drown my sorrows in soapsuds.”

“If we could only think of something,” Jane murmured. “If we could only think of something!”She used the plural pronoun without realizing it, so intensely did she feel.

“Why should you care?” Ken asked her mistrustfully. “You never thought my Caddy was worth a plugged nickel anyway.”

There was something about the way he said “my Caddy” which reminded Jane of the way her mother occasionally said “my husband” or her father said “my wife.” From the beginning it had been a love affair between Ken and that car, she realized. A far more serious entanglement than between Ken and Belinda. “I do care,” Jane said very softly. “I only made fun of the Cadillac to get even with you.”

“Get even? I don’t understand.”

“It doesn’t matter now,” Jane said. “It’s all over.” Then, before he could quiz her further, she said, with sudden inspiration, “Ken, before we go home, let’s drive over and let Peter’s uncle take a look at this. It will only take fifteen minutes, and he just might have a suggestion.”

“It’ll take more than a suggestion.”

“An inspiration, then,” Jane wheedled.

“Any miracles lying around?”

“Ken, please!”

“It’s a waste of time,” Ken argued. “Pop gets home tomorrow, remember. Not next week.”

“Maybe something will happen.”

“Such as what?”

“The plane could be grounded,” Jane suggested.

“Fat chance,” Ken muttered, but he turned away from Franklin Street into the Carlinville Road.

Jane sat very still, wondering what they could say when they arrived, now that Ken had acceded to her impulsive request. The nearer they got to the Watsons’, the more apprehensive she felt. Suppose Peter’s uncle wasn’t at home? Suppose he thought them rash or harebrained to come to him in such a headlong fashion? Suppose he...

At that moment Mr. Watson came around the corner of the red track into the beam of Ken’s one headlight. He whistled long and softly. “When did this happen, young fella?”

“Just now,” Ken said.

“Mr. Watson,” Jane barged in, “I suggested coming here. Ken’s in an awful jam. It’s like this.” She launched into an account of Mr. Sanderson’s initial disapproval of the Cadillac, of Ken’s costly mistake and its consequences, of his father’s imminent return. Words tumbled over one another. Like a lawyer pleading an important case, she was scarcely aware of her audience, except for Mr. Watson, the one-man jury. She saw, without sensing, Peter’s arrival, and knew that he stood by listening; but it wasn’t to him that she spoke.

Kindliness and another emotion, the warmth of understanding, welled up in Mr. Watson’s eyes. He nodded to Jane but spoke to Ken. “You’re in a tight spot, aren’t you, boy?”

“Yes, sir, you bet I am!”

“When does your father get in?”

“Tomorrow afternoon, on the four-forty-five plane from Chicago. I was going to meet him at the airport,” he confessed ruefully, “as a sort of a surprise.”

Mr. Watson looked as his wrist watch. “It certainly doesn’t give us much time,” he said.

Jane’s heart leapt. Us! He was going to help Ken! He was going to try to beat the rap. Us. It was such a little word, but so important. She stood, tense and silent, with clasped hands, but her eyes began to shine.

Peter watched her covertly, but she wasn’t aware of it. She didn’t see the tenderness of his expression or the look of comprehension. She was too absorbed.

“Wh — what do you mean, sir?” Ken was asking incredulously.

“I mean we can make a stab at this job, if Peter will lend a hand – and if you’ve got a fender. You have got a fender, haven’t you, Ken?”

“I – think so.” Ken was still nearly speechless with astonishment.

“And I’ve got that grille I bought from you. How soon can you get home and eat your dinner and come back here?”

“Gosh, I don’t care about eating,” Ken replied. “I can grab something on the run. Say half to three quarters of an hour.” Then he looked suddenly stricken. “It’s no use. I forgot my dishwashing job.”

“I’ll take it over for this evening,” Jane heard herself saying. “I can wash dishes as well as you can, any day of the week.”

“But maybe they wouldn’t like it.” Ken looked doubtful.

“They’ll like it,” Jane promised. “If I turn up and you don’t, they’ll have to like it. Come on. Let’s go.”

“Better take my truck,” Mr. Watson suggested. “Maybe we can get started before you get back.”

“You mean you’d trust me with it, sir? After this?” Ken gestured toward the crumpled front end of the Cadillac!

Mr. Watson smiled. “Jane said it wasn’t your fault, son. And I trust Jane.”

“Well, I sure appreciate it,” Ken mumbled, his voice husky with emotion.

Exercise 3. Find the following words and word combinations in the text you have read. Write out and learn the pronunciation. Give the Russian equivalents:

1. to commit oneself

2. to be subjected to something

3. to call for somebody

4. in response to something

5. to take time to do something

6. to take pains to do something

7. to contradict somebody

8. to have a genius for something

9. to leap to one’s feet

10. to stand in the shadow (of a tree)

11. to flee (fled, fled)

12. to pull up at

13. to break the news to somebody

14. to get even with somebody

15. to take over

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