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контрольная работа Прочитайте и переведите все тексты. Jack London (1876—1916) Jack London, an American writer, came of a poor family. When he was a schoolboy he had to sell newspapers and do other work to get money for a living. Then he became a sailor. Later he did some other work. His life was very hard and he described it in his book 'Martin Eden'. Jack London wrote about fifty books: short stories, novels and other works. He was made famous by his book 'Call of the Wild'. 'Martin Eden' is another of his well-known books. You will read 'Brown Wolf', one of the stories written by Jack

2013

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Jack London (1876—1916)

Jack London, an American writer, came of a poor family. When he was a schoolboy he had to sell newspapers and do other work to get money for a living. Then he became a sailor. Later he did some other work.
His life was very hard and he described it in his book 'Martin Eden'.
Jack London wrote about fifty books: short stories, novels and other works.
He was made famous by his book 'Call of the Wild'. 'Martin Eden' is another of his well-known books.
You will read 'Brown Wolf', one of the stories written by Jack London. The story is adapted.

BROWN WOLF (after J. London)

One day John Smith and his wife Mary found a dog. He was a very wild and strange dog. The dog was weak and hungry, but he did not let them touch him and ate the food they gave him when they went away.
When the dog was strong again, he disappeared.
A few months later, when Smith was in a train, he saw his dog. The dog was running along the road. Smith got off the train at the next station, bought a piece of meat, caught the dog, and brought him home again. There he was tied up for a week.
At the end of the week Smith tied a metal plate to the dog with the words "Please, return to Smith, Ellen, California", and set the dog free. He disappeared again.
This time he was sent back by the train, was tied up for three days, was set free on the fourth day and disappeared again.
As soon as he received his freedom, he always ran north. The dog always came back hungry and weak and always ran away trash and strong.
At last the dog decided to stay with the Smiths, but a long time passed before they could touch him. They called the dog 'Wolf'.
One summer day a stranger came to the place where Smith and his wife lived. As soon as the dog saw him, he ran to the stranger and licked his hands with his tongue. Then the stranger said:
"His name isn't Wolf. It's Brown. He was my dog."
"Oh," cried Mary, "you are not going to take him away with you? Leave him here, he is happy."
The stranger then said, "His mother died and I brought him up on condensed milk. He never knew any mother but me. Do you think he wants to stay with you?"
"I am sure of it."
"Well," said the stranger. "He must decide it himself. I'll say goodbye and go away, if he wants to stay- let him stay. If he wants to come with me, let him come. I will not call him to come."
For some time Wolf watched the man. He waited for him to return. Then he ran after the man, caught his hand between his teeth and tried to stop him. The man did not stop. Then the dog ran back to where Smith and his wife sat. He tried to drag Smith after the stranger. The dog wanted to be at the same time with the old master and the new one. The stranger disappeared. The dog lay down at the feet, of Smith. Mary was happy. A few minutes later the dog got up and ran after the old master. He never turned his head. Faster and faster the dog ran along the road and in a few minutes he was gone.

A cup of tea (by Katherine Mansfield)

Katherine Mansfield, an outstanding English short-story writer of the 20th century, was born in New Zealand in 1888 and died in 1923. She is the author of a number of excellent short stories which deal with human nature and psychology.
At the age of eighteen she decided to become a professional writer. Her first short stories appeared in Melbourne in 1907, but literary fame came to her in London after the publication of a collection of short stories called "In a German Pension".
Katherine Mansfield took a great interest in Russian literature, particularly in the works of Chekhov. In fact, she considered herself to be a pupil of the great Russian writer.
Rosemary Fell was not exactly beautiful. She was young, brilliant, extremely modern, well dressed and amazingly well read in the newest of the new books. Rosemary had been married two years, and her husband was very fond of her. They were rich, really rich, not just comfortably well-off, so if Rosemary wanted to shop, she would go to Paris as you and I would go to Bond Street.
One winter afternoon she went into a small shop to look at a little box which the shopman had been keeping for her. He had shown it to nobody as yet so that she might be the first to see it.
"Charming!" Rosemary admired the box. But how much would he charge her for it? For a moment the shopman did not seem to hear. The lady could certainly afford a high price. Then his words reached her, "Twenty-eight guineas, madam."
"Twenty-eight guineas." Rosemary gave no sign. Even if one is rich... Her voice was dreamy as she answered: "Well, keep it for me, will you? I'll..." The shopman bowed. He would be willing of course, to keep it for her forever.
Outside rain was falling, there was a cold, bitter taste in the air, and the newly lighted lamps looked sad... At that very moment a young girl, thin, dark, appeared at Rosemary's elbow and a voice, like a sigh, breathed: "Madam, may I speak to you a moment?"
"Speak to me?" Rosemary turned. She saw a little creature, no older than herself who shivered as though she had just come out of the water.
"Madam," came the voice, "would you let me have the price of a cup of tea?"
"A cup of tea?" There was something simple, sincere in that voice; it couldn't be the voice of a beggar. "Then have you no money at all?" asked Rosemary. "None, madam", came the answer. "How unusual!" Rosemary looked at the girl closer. And suddenly it seemed to her such an adventure. Supposing she took the girl home? Supposing she did one of those things she was always reading about or seeing on the stage? What would happen? It would be thrilling. And she heard herself saying afterwards to the amazement of her friends: "I simply took her home with me." And she stepped forward and said to the girl beside her: "Come home to tea with me."
The girl gave a start. "You're — you're not taking me to the police station?" There was pain in her voice.
"The police station!" Rosemary laughed out. "Why should I be so cruel? No, I only want to make you warm and to hear — anything you care to tell me. Come along."
Hungry people are easily led. The footman held the door of the car open, and a moment later they were riding through the dusk.
"There!" cried Rosemary, as they reached her beautiful big bedroom. "Come and sit down", she said, pulling her big chair up to the fire. "Come and get warm. You look so terribly cold."
"I daren't, madam," hesitated the girl.
"Oh, please," — Rosemary ran forward — "you mustn't be frightened, you mustn't, really." And gently she half pushed the thin figure into the chair.
There was a whisper that sounded like "Very good, madam," and the worn hat was taken off.
"And let me help you off with your coat, too," said Rosemary.
The girl stood up. But she held on to the chair with one hand and let Rosemary pull.
Then she said quickly, but so lightly and strangely: "I'm very sorry, madam, but I'm going to faint. I shall fall, madam, if I don't have something."
"Good heavens, how thoughtless I am!" Rosemary rushed to the bell.
"Tea! Tea at once! And some brandy immediately."
The maid was gone and the girl almost burst into tears. She forgot to be shy, forgot everything except that they were both women, and cried out: "I can't go on any longer like this. I can't stand it. I wish I were dead. I really can't stand it!"
"You won't have to. I'll look after you. I'll arrange something. Do stop crying. Please."
The other did stop just in time for Rosemary to get up before the tea came.
And really the effect of that slight meal was amazing. When the tea-table was carried away, a new girl, a light creature with dark lips and deep eyes lay back in the big chair.
At that moment the door-handle turned.
"Rosemary, can I come in?" It was Philip, her husband.
"Of course."
He came in. "Oh, I'm so sorry," he said, as if apologizing, and stopped and stared.
"It's quite all right," said Rosemary, smiling. "This is my friend, Miss —"
"Smith, madam," said the figure in the chair.
"Smith," said Rosemary. "We are going to have a little talk."
Philip smiled his charming smile. "As a matter of fact," he said, "I wanted you to come into the library for a moment. Will Miss Smith excuse us?"
The big eyes were raised to him, but Rosemary answered for her: "Of course she will", and they went out of the room together.
"I say," said Philip, when they were alone. "Explain, who is she? What does it all mean?"
Rosemary, laughing, leaned against the door and said: "I picked her up in the street. Really. She asked me for the price of a cup of tea and I brought her home with me."
"Congratulations!" Philip sounded as though he were joking. "But what on earth are you going to do with her?"
"Be nice to her", said Rosemary quickly, "look after her. I don't know how. We haven't talked yet. Just show her — treat her — make her feel —"
"But," said Philip slowly, and he cut the end of a cigar, "she's so extremely pretty. She can't be more than twenty."
"Pretty?" Rosemary was so surprised that she blushed. "Do you think so? I — I hadn't thought about it."
"Good Lord!" Philip took a match. "She's absolutely lovely. Look again, my child. But let me know if Miss Smith is going to dine with us!"
"You absurd creature!" said Rosemary, and she went out of the library, but not back to her bedroom. She went to her writing-room and sat down at her desk. Pretty! Absolutely lovely! Her heart beat like a heavy bell. She opened a drawer, took out five pound notes, looked at them, put two back, and holding the three in her hand, went back to her bedroom.
Half an hour later Philip was still in the library, when Rosemary came in.
"I only wanted to tell you," said she, and she leaned against the door again, "Miss Smith won't dine with us tonight."
Philip put down the paper. "Oh, what's happened? Previous engagement?"
Rosemary came over and sat down on his knee. "She insisted on going," she said, "so I gave the poor little thing a present of money. I couldn't keep her against her will, could I?" she added softly.
There was a pause.
Then Rosemary said dreamily: "I saw a wonderful little box today. It cost twenty-eight guineas. Can I have it?"
"You can, little wasteful one," said he. "You know I can't deny you anything."
But that was not really what Rosemary wanted to say.
"Philip," she whispered, "am I pretty?"

A Custom House Incident (by Nigel Balchin)

Nigel Balchin, a modern English writer, was born in 1908. He is the author of several novels, stories and screen-scripts.

Among the passengers travelling home by train from Florence there was a certain Miss Bradley.
I only noticed her when passing down the corridor, because of her really remarkable plainness. She was rather a large, awkward woman of about thirty-five with a big, red nose, and large spectacles.
Later on, when I went to the dining-car, Miss Bradley was already seated, and the attendant placed me opposite her.
I think we may have exchanged half a dozen words at dinner, when passing one another the sugar or the bread. But they were certainly all we exchanged, and after we left the dining-car, I did not see Miss Bradley again until we reached Calais Maritime.
And then our acquaintance really began, and it began entirely on my initiative. There were plenty of porters, and I called one without difficulty from the window of the train. But as I got off, I saw Miss Bradley standing on the platform with two large very old suit-cases. The porters were passing her by.
I am quite sure that had she been an even slightly attractive woman, I should not have gone up to her, but she was so ugly, and looked so helpless that I approached her, and said: "My porter has a barrow. Would you like him to put your cases on it too?" Miss Bradley turned and looked at me.
"Oh — thank you. It is very kind of you."
My porter, without great enthusiasm, added her luggage to mine; and in a few minutes we found ourselves on board the Channel ferry.
Before the boat had been under way for ten minutes, I realized that Miss Bradley was a remarkable bore. Shyly and hesitantly she kept on talking about nothing, and made no remark worth taking notice of.
I learned that she had been in Italy a fortnight, visiting her sister who was married to an Italian. She had never been out of England before.
I did not look forward to travelling to London with her for another four hours, so excusing myself I went along to the booking-office on board the boat and booked myself a seat on the Golden Arrow.
Miss Bradley was travelling by the ordinary boat train, so this would mean that we should part at Dover.
At Dover I hired one of the crew to carry our luggage.
Normally, passengers for the Golden Arrow are dealt with by the customs first, as the train leaves twenty minutes before the ordinary boat train. When the boy asked if we were going on the Golden Arrow, I hesitated and then said "Yes".
It was too difficult to explain that one of us was and one of us wasn't, and then it would get Miss Bradley through the customs quickly.
As we went towards the Customs Hall, I explained carefully to her that my train left before hers, but that I would see her through the customs; the boy would then take the luggage to our trains, and she could sit comfortably in hers till it left. Miss Bradley said, "Oh, thank you very much."
The boy, of course, had put our suit-cases together on the counter, and Miss Bradley and I went and stood before them. In due course the customs examiner reached us, looked at the four suitcases in that human X-ray manner which customs examiners must practise night and morning, and said, "This is all yours?"
I was not quite sure whether he was speaking to me, or me and Miss Bradley. So I replied, "Well — mine and this lady's".
The examiner said, "But you're together?"
"For the moment," I said rather foolishly, smiling at Miss Bradley.
"Yes," said the customs man patiently. "But are you travelling together? Is this your joint luggage?"
"Well, no. Not exactly. We're just sharing a porter "
I pointed my cases out. I had nothing to declare, and declared it. Without asking me to open them, the examiner chalked the cases and then, instead of moving to my left and dealing with Miss Bradley, moved to the right, and began X-raying somebody else's luggage.
The boy took my cases off the counter. I hesitated for a moment, but then decided it was no use waiting for Miss Bradley since we were about to part, so I said:
"Well, I'll say good-bye now, and go and find my train. I expect the examiner'll come back and do you next. The porter will stay and bring our luggage up to the trains when you're through. Good-bye."
Miss Bradley said, "Oh... good-bye and thank you so much." We shook hands and I left.
I found my seat in the Golden Arrow and began to read.
It must have been about twenty minutes later that I suddenly realized the train was due to leave in five minutes and that the porter had not yet brought my luggage. I was just going to look for him when he appeared, breathing heavily, with my suit-cases. I asked him rather what he had been doing.
"The lady is still there," said the boy, "and will be for some time, I think. They are going through her things properly."
"But why?"
"Well, they'd found forty watches when I came away, and that was only the start, so I thought maybe you wouldn't want me to wait."
I have often wondered whether, when Miss Bradley stood so helplessly on the platform at Calais, she had already chosen me as the person to come to her rescue, or whether she was just sure that somebody would.
Looking back, I think, she must have chosen me. I am fairly sure of that though exactly how, I have never been clear. I am quite sure she never made the slightest effort to make my acquaintance.

A deal of paint (by Elizabeth Ayrton)

I am a painter. I like painting more than anything else, except obvious things like food and drink, that all sensible people like. As a painter, I have quite a lot of talent — I'm not sure yet how much — and a fairly complete mastery of most of the technical requirements; that is, I am an instinctive colourist, and my composition is interesting.
I have my difficulties, but who does not? I get on fairly well with people, and I ought to be quite as successful as a dozen other painters — but I am not. I never have been since my very first one-man show, when I was discovered by the critics, taken up — and very quickly put down again — and sold out.
"Sold out" is the just phrase. I was twenty-two after that show. Apart from quite a lot of money, the way I understand it, I had one oil painting left, three drawings, and very little common sense, my most valuable remaining possession. The common sense prevented me from believing what the critics said and considering myself a genius, and not only a genius but a painter who would always be able to live by painting exactly what he wanted to paint when he wanted to paint it.
I did, however, think that I could probably afford to marry Leila, rent my own studio, and stop being a student.
But I have never had another show which sold like that first one, although I am a better painter than I was then. My work is as contemporary as any; of course it is; how can anyone intelligent and honest paint behind his time, deliberately or by accident? But more and more critics support what is called Action Painting and Other Art, when a painter is trying to be as different from anyone else as he can. Anyway, it has been clear ever since that first sell-out show that I have an old way of seeing things and am really an academic.
My second show went fairly well because Other Art had not then got very far. But ever since. Not that I don't sell a certain amount privately. I do. To the uneducated and even the half-educated my work seems to give a good deal of pleasure.
However, in the last two years things have got very tight.
We can't pay the quarter's rent and we can't afford not to, so something had to be done. So my applying for a most unpleasant job which my uncle could give me. I got it. Start next Monday.
When I got back from the interview, Leila was sitting in the studio, which she seldom does, as it was a working-room entirely. She said, "Hi, Bill. You'll never guess what's happened."
I thought it was something awful because she hadn't even asked me about the job. I said, "What?"
"Garrard came — just before lunch." Garrard is my dealer, and I'd been trying to get him to come and look at my work and arrange for a show for the last year. Dealers!
I sat down and asked Leila what he wanted.
"He came because there's a Mrs. Spencer Thompson who's interested in having you paint a small portrait of her daughter. She's American and very rich and she wants you to paint it."
"Very nice of her. She must have seen one of the early portraits. Did you make Garrard look at the work? Did he say anything about a show?"
Leila went bright pink and opened her eyes much too wide as she does when she's surprised. She said, "It's the most extraordinary thing. It's really awfully funny, I suppose, but I think you'll be furious. I was just cleaning up in here a bit as you were out".
I said, "I wish you wouldn't. The still life on the easel's wet — it doesn't want a lot of dust sticking to the surface."
This is what I always say when Leila cleans the studio, and while I was saying it I looked round for the first time. The studio has a parquet floor, and to protect it I have a large piece of hardboard in front of my easel to catch the worst drips of paint.
Now the piece was on the easel and my still life was leaning against the wall.
I said, "Good God! What on earth? Leila!" and jumped up to take it off the easel and throw it on the floor again and make sure my Jars in a Window — which was coming along rather well — was all right.
Leila jumped up too and stood between me and the easel.
"Bill, listen a minute. It's Garrard. Not me. Of course I wouldn't."
"Garrard? What do you mean?"
"He was looking at the pictures explaining how the gallery was booked up for a year and how he couldn't really promise you a show till next year and saying, "Mm," to each picture instead of "Ah," like he does when he likes them, and suddenly he saw the hardboard leaning against the wall."
"What was it doing there?"
"I told you, I was cleaning. I'd picked it up to sweep underneath it." He said, "Ah," at once, and then he stepped back and said, "Ah ha!" with his head on one side.
"And then he turned to me and said, "Leila, my dear, I'm very glad to have this opportunity to talk to you with Bill not here. I thought — I felt — that there must be something like this. Tell me — why is he holding out on us?"
I saw it all, but I couldn't really believe it.
"He didn't really think it was an abstract?"
"He did. He not only thought it was an abstract, he thought it was wonderful. He said he'd always known you had it in you, as soon as you caught up with contemporary thought. That was why he'd never worried you, and always tried to help us keep going. You can't hurry genius. And he'd known you were that ever since he gave you your first show."
We rocked with laughter. I moved to take the board off the easel again.
Leila held my arm. "Listen, Bill. He wants to buy it."
"Buy it? Didn't you tell him?"
She opened her eyes again. "No, I didn't. I couldn't really. I suppose I should have, but it would have made him look too silly. He'd have hated us for ever after." I just said I didn't think you'd sell it."
"I sure won't. It's top absurd."
She began to dance, quoting Garrard. "And now, Leila, my dear, show me the rest. Is there enough for a full show? When did this start?"
"No!"
"Yes, I tell you. So I said — I'm sorry, Bill, but I couldn't think what to do — that you did not want to talk about them and had told me not to let anyone see them, but I'd tell you what he said." 110
He said, "I'll ring him up this afternoon. Leila, my dear, I must go now, but I want you to know how splendid, how really splendid, this development is in your husband's work, I'm sure you do know, because you're one of the intelligent wives. Tell me, how many paintings are there?"
"I said I didn't know." And he sighed and said, "Ah, well. He ought to be able to manage a show next spring at the latest. Tell him I'll be ringing him, and tell him not to waste time with the portrait. It's not worth his while. And this one — if he wants to part with it, I'll buy it myself. That'll show him what I think of the new work. That's absolutely accurate word for word reporting, Bill. I've been sitting here going over it to make sure I wasn't mad or anything."
We were both quite silent and serious for a minute as we thought about it. I stood in front of the easel and looked at the board carefully.
I remembered that I'd been reading something about Action Painting in America at breakfast yesterday and when I came in to the studio I was, I thought, in the necessary emotional condition, it was anger and a sort of despair.
So I threw a lump of crimson, the colour of anger, down on to the board. And then I threw down a lump of lemon chrome and stamped on it.
And then I was ashamed of myself for being so childish, and anyway that is not the way one wastes good paint, which is expensive. So I went on with my Jars in a Window, feeling tired and sad.
But you see, it meant that the board on the floor wasn't entirely an accident. Some kind of emotional purpose had gone into it. Which is what the action painters claim. And perhaps Garrard had felt it — perhaps it does communicate...
Leila doesn't know about this.
So now what shall I do? What a thing to find lying in wait for you on your return from taking a white-collar job at eleven pounds a week. Because this board is big, forty inches by fifty. Even at my present prices, I shouldn't sell for under three hundred, Garrard knows that. I could probably get four out of him. And I can't paint him thirty more for an exhibition.
I could, of course. I could paint six by this evening and show them to him tomorrow.
And they might be very interesting and surprising if they conveyed the mixture of emotions I feel at this moment.

A future businessman (from "The Financier" by Theodore Dreiser)

Theodore Dreiser, the great American progressive writer, was born in a poor family in 1871. He began to work for his living when he was sixteen. He had a number of jobs, and at one time was a newspaper reporter. As a reporter he gained a wide experience of life, which was a great help to him when he took up novel-writing.
Dreiser's literary career started in 1900 when "Sister Carrie" was published. In this novel and also in his later works, the writer exposed the true nature of American "democracy"
Dreiser was deeply impressed by the Great October Socialist Revolution. In 1927—28 he visited the Soviet Union and from that time on was a true friend to our country. In 1945, at the age of 74, he joined the Communist Party of the USA.
Dreiser died in 1945.
The passage below comes from "The Financier" Frank Cowperwood at thirteen is shown as a boy who is already fully aware of the power of money. Later on he becomes a typical capitalist who stops at nothing to become rich and powerful.

Buttonwood Street, Philadelphia, where Frank Cowperwood spent the first ten years of his life, was a lovely place for a boy to live in. There were mainly red brick houses there with small marble steps leading up to the front doors. There were trees in the street — a lot of them. Behind each house there was a garden with trees and grass and sometimes flowers.
The Cowperwoods, father and mother, were happy with their children. Henry Cowperwood, the father of the family, started life as a bank clerk, but when Frank, his elder son, was ten, Henry Cowperwood became a teller at the bank.
As his position grew more responsible, his business connections increased. He already knew a number of rich businessmen who dealt with the bank where he worked. The brokers knew him as representing a well-known film and considered him to be a most reliable person.
Young Cowperwood took an interest in his father's progress. He was quite often allowed to come to the bank on Saturdays, when he would watch with great interest the quick exchange of bills. He wanted to know where all the different kinds of money came from, and what the men did with all the money they received. His father, pleased at his interest, was glad to explain, so that even at this early age — from ten to fifteen — the boy gained a wide knowledge of the condition of the country financially. He was also interested in stocks and bonds, and he learned that some stocks and bonds were not even worth the paper they were written on, and others were worth much more than their face value showed.
At home also he listened to considerable talk of business and financial adventure.
Frank realized that his father was too honest, too careful. He often told himself that when he grew up, he was going to be a broker, or a financier, or a banker, and do some of the risky things he so often used to hear about.
Just at this time there came to the Cowperwoods an uncle, Seneca Davis, who had not appeared in the life of the family before.
Henry Cowperwood was pleased at the arrival of this rather rich relative, for before that Seneca Davis had not taken much notice of Henry Cowperwood and his family.
This time, however, he showed much more interest in the Cowperwoods, particularly in Frank.
"How would you like to come down to Cuba and be a planter, my boy?" he asked him once.
"I am not so sure that I'd like to," replied the boy.
"Well, that's frank enough. What have you against it?"
"Nothing, except that I don't know anything about it."
"What do you know?" The boy smiled, "Not very much, I guess."
"Well, what are you interested in?"
"Money."
He looked at Frank carefully now. There was something in the boy ... no doubt of it.
"A smart boy!" he said to Henry, his brother-in-law. "You have a good family."
Uncle Seneca became a frequent visitor to the house and took an increasing interest in Frank.
"Keep in touch with me," he said to his sister one day. "When that boy gets old enough to find out what he wants to do, I think I'll help him to do it." She told him she was very grateful. He talked to Frank about his studies, and found that the boy took little interest in books or most of the subjects he had to take at school.
"I like book-keeping and mathematics," he said. "I want to get out and get to work, though. That's what I want to do."
"You're very young, my son," his uncle said. "You're only how old now? Fourteen?"
"Thirteen."
"Well, you can't leave school much before sixteen. You'll do better if you stay until seventeen or eighteen. It can't do you any harm. You won't be a boy again."
"I don't want to be a boy. I want to get to work."
"Don't go too fast, son. You'll be a man soon enough. You want to be a banker, don't you?"
"Yes. sir."
"Well, when the time comes, if everything is all right and you've behaved well and you still want to, I'll help you get a start in business. If you are going to be a banker, you must work with some good company a year or so. You'll get a good training there. And, meantime, keep your health and learn all you can."
And with these words he gave the boy a ten-dollar gold piece with which to start a bank-account.

A Good Lesson

Once a rich Englishwoman called Mrs Johnson decided to have a birthday party. She invited a lot of guests and a singer. The singer was poor, but he had a very good voice.
The singer got to Mrs Johnson's house at exactly six o'clock as he had been asked to do, but when he went in, he saw through a door that the dining-room was already full of guests, who were sitting round a big table in the middle of the room. The guests were eating, joking, laughing, and talking loudly. Mrs Johnson came out to him, and he thought she was going to ask him to join them, when she said, "We're glad, sir, that you have come. You will be singing after dinner, I'll call you as soon as we're ready to listen to you. Now will you go into the kitchen and have dinner, too, please?"
The singer was very angry, but said nothing. At first he wanted to leave Mrs Johnson's house at once, but then he changed his mind and decided to stay and teach her and her rich guests a good lesson. When the singer went into the kitchen, the servants were having dinner, too. He joined them. After dinner, the singer thanked everybody and said, "Well, now I'm going to sing to you, my good friends." And he sang them some beautiful songs.
Soon Mrs Johnson called the singer.
"Well, sir, we're ready."
"Ready?" asked the singer. "What are you ready for?"
"To listen to you," said Mrs Johnson in an angry voice.
"Listen to me? But I have already sung, and I'm afraid I shan't be able to sing any more tonight."
"Where did you sing?"
"In the kitchen. I always sing for those I have dinner with."

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