«Тобиас Ужасный» и другие рассказы

request him to let them miss him здесь попросить его исчезнуть

greatest eater alive самый сильный едок из ныне живущих

wager ставка (у букмекеров)

taps out здесь потратил всю наличность

forfeitздесь безвозвратный залог в случае нарушения условий

bet ставка, делать ставку

sporting instinctsздесь спортивный азарт

he may give the elephant a photo finish здесь возможно, победителя пришлось бы определять с помощью фотофиниша

belongs up there as a contender здесь находится на очень высоком уровне среди претендентов на победу

meet = meeting

blats здесь слухи, разговоры

a 6 to 5 favorite over здесь соотношение ставок у букмекеров 6 к 5 в пользу

course блюдо (не посуда, а еда)

term условие (договора)

toss a coin бросить монету (в качестве жребия)

gallon галлон (мера жидкости примерно 3,8 л)

clamздесь моллюск

pound фунт (мера веса примерно 4,5 кг)

ears of corn on the cob здесь варёная кукуруза в початках

loose chewingsздесь мелкие кусочки/крошки пищи, которая падает во время еды

in case of a tie в случае ничьей

to eat it off immediately on ham and eggsздесь решить спор немедленно поеданием яичницы с ветчиной

ounce унция (мера веса примерно в 30 граммов)

rootingздесь поддержка, подсказка

outswith his watch здесь доставать часы

heat здесь состязание, схватка

ruleздесь выносить решение (о суде)

claim a foul заявить о грязной игре

ВОПРОСЫ И ЗАДАНИЯ

How does the story begin?

What kind of contest was organized?

Can you describe the way the contest was discussed?

Did you happen to see any contests like this?

Why do you think the story was titled like this?

Read aloud and translate any paragraph you like.

Tobias the Terrible*

(3423 words)

One night I am sitting in Mindy's restaurant on Broadway partaking heartily of some Hungarian goulash which comes very nice in Mindy's, what with the chef being personally somewhat Hungarian himself, when in pops a guy who is a stranger to me and sits down at my table.

I do not pay any attention to the guy at first as I am busy looking over the entries for the next day at Laurel, but I hear him tell the waiter to bring him some goulash, too. By and by I hear the guy making a strange noise and I look at him over my paper and see that he is crying. In fact, large tears are rolling down his face into his goulash and going plop–plop as they fall.

Now it is by no means usual to see guys crying in Mindy's restaurant, though thousands of guys come in there who often feel like crying, especially after a tough day at the track, so I commence weighing the guy up with great interest. I can see he is a very little guy, maybe a shade over five feet high and weighing maybe as much as a dime's worth of liver, and he has a mustache like a mosquito's whiskers across his upper lip, and pale blond hair and a very sad look in his eyes.

Furthermore, he is a young guy and he is wearing a suit of clothes the color of French mustard, with slanting pockets, and I notice when he comes in that he has a brown hat on his noggin. Anybody can see that this guy does not belong in these parts, with such a sad look and especially with such a hat.

Naturally, I figure his crying is some kind of a dodge. In fact, I figure that maybe the guy is trying to cry me out of the price of his Hungarian goulash, although if he takes the trouble to ask anybody before he comes in, he will learn that he may just as well try to cry something out of a lamppost.

But the guy does not say anything whatever to me but just goes on shedding tears into his goulash, and finally I get very curious about this proposition, and I speak to him as follows:

"Listen, pally," I say, "if you are crying about the goulash, you better dry your tears before the chef sees you, because," I say, "the chef is very sensitive about his goulash, and may take your tears as criticism."

"The goulash seems all right," the guy says in a voice that is just about his size. "Anyway, I am not crying about the goulash. I am crying about my sad life. Friend," the guy says, "are you ever in love?"

Well, of course, at this crack I know what is eating the guy. If I have all the tears that are shed on Broadway by guys in love, I will have enough salt water to start a new ocean. But I wish to say I never shed any of these tears personally, because I am never in love, and furthermore, I never expect to be in love, for the way I look at it love is strictly nonsense, and I tell the little guy as much.