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Options-Part29_O.Henry(1862-1910)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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acquaintance.

The doctrine of predestination would have been discredited had not



Vesey seen Ileen Hinkle and become fourth in the tourney.

Magnificently, he boarded at the yellow pine hotel instead of at the



Parisian Restaurant; but he came to be a formidablevisitor in the

Hinkle parlor. His competition reduced Bud to an inspired increase of



profanity, drove Jacks to an outburst of slang so weird that it

sounded more horrible than the most trenchant of Bud's imprecations,



and made me dumb with gloom.

For Vesey had the rhetoric. Words flowed from him like oil from a



gusher. Hyperbole, compliment, praise, appreciation, honeyed

gallantry, golden opinions, eulogy, and unveiled panegyric vied with



one another for pre-eminence in his speech. We had small hopes that

Ileen could resist his oratory and Prince Albert.



But a day came that gave us courage.

About dusk one evening I was sitting on the little gallery in front of



the Hinkle parlor, waiting for Ileen to come, when I heard voices

inside. She had come into the room with her father, and Old Man



Hinkle began to talk to her. I had observed before that he was a

shrewd man, and not unphilosophic.



"Ily," said he, "I notice there's three or four young fellers that

have been callin' to see you regular for quite a while. Is there any



one of 'em you like better than another?"

"Why, pa," she answered, "I like all of 'em very well. I think Mr.



Cuninngham and Mr. Jacks and Mr. Harris are very nice young men. They

are so frank and honest in everything they say to me. I haven't known



Mr. Vesey very long, but I think he's a very nice young man, he's so

frank and honest in everything he says to me."



"Now, that's what I'm gittin' at," says old Hinkle. "You've always

been sayin' you like people what tell the truth and don't go



humbuggin' you with compliments and bogus talk. Now, suppose you make

a test of these fellers, and see which one of 'em will talk the



straightest to you."

"But how'll I do it, pa?"



"I'll tell you how. You know you sing a little bit, Ily; you took

music-lessons nearly two years in Logansport. It wasn't long, but it



was all we could afford then. And your teacher said you didn't have

any voice, and it was a waste of money to keep on. Now, suppose you



ask the fellers what they think of your singin', and see what each one

of 'em tells you. The man that 'll tell you the truth about it 'll



have a mighty lot of nerve, and 'll do to tie to. What do you think

of the plan?"



"All right, pa," said Ileen. "I think it's a good idea. I'll try

it."



Ileen and Mr. Hinkle went out of the room through the inside doors.

Unobserved, I hurried down to the station. Jacks was at his telegraph



table waiting for eight o'clock to come. It was Bud's night in town,

and when he rode in I repeated the conversation to them both. I was



loyal to my rivals, as all true admirers of all Ileens should be.

Simultaneously the three of us were smitten by an uplifting thought.



Surely this test would eliminate Vesey from the contest. He, with his

unctuous flattery, would be driven from the lists. Well we remembered



Ileen's love of frankness and honesty--how she treasured truth and

candor above vain compliment and blandishment.



Linking arms, we did a grotesque dance of joy up and down the

platform, singing Muldoon Was a Solid Man at the top of our voices.



That evening four of the willow rocking-chairs were filled besides the

lucky one that sustained the trim figure of Miss Hinkle. Three of us



awaited with suppressed excitement the application of the test. It

was tried on Bud first.



"Mr. Cunningham," said Ileen, with her dazzling smile, after she had

sung When the Leaves Begin to Turn, "what do you really think of my



voice? Frankly and honestly, now, as you know I want you to always be

toward me."



Bud squirmed in his chair at his chance to show the sincerity that he

knew was required of him.



"Tell you the truth, Miss Ileen," he said, earnestly, "you ain't got

much more voice than a weasel--just a little squeak, you know. Of



course, we all like to hear you sing, for it's kind of sweet and

soothin' after all, and you look most as mighty well sittin' on the



piano-stool as you do faced around. But as for real singin'--I reckon

you couldn't call it that."






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