Читать книгу Miss Pickerell Goes Undersea - Ellen MacGregor - Страница 3
ОглавлениеMiss Pickerell and Her Cow
Miss Pickerell stopped her automobile in front of the Square Toe City Picture Show, and leaned out to look at a large colored poster beside the ticket window.
The poster showed a sunken ship beneath the surface of the sea.
Several swimmers with rubber fins on their feet and air tanks strapped to their backs were floating through the water, exploring the wreck. In the background hovered a huge submarine.
Miss Pickerell pushed in a loose hairpin, straightened her hat, and got out of her automobile.
"How many, please, Miss Pickerell?" It was the man in the ticket window. His name was Mr. Thread, and he owned the Picture Show.
Miss Pickerell stepped up to the window and put her mouth opposite the little round hole in the glass.
"I'm not going to the show, Mr. Thread," she said. "I don't care much for undersea adventure pictures. They're too improbable."
"The matinee is about to begin," Mr. Thread said. "I'm sure you'd enjoy it. It's very exciting."
"I don't think so," Miss Pickerell said. "I know things like that don't really happen. And anyway, I just wanted to find out if this show is going to be on next week. My seven nieces and nephews are coming to visit me next week, and I'm trying to think of nice things for them to do while they're here."
"It'll be on next week," Mr. Thread said.
Miss Pickerell thanked Mr. Thread and went back to her automobile.
Her next errand was at the Square Toe City Photograph Studio, and she parked her car in the shade of a tree in front of it.
"I'll only be a minute," she said, as she reached into the back seat and took out a large gilt picture frame she had brought with her. "I'll be right back."
Miss Pickerell was speaking to her cow, who was riding in the little red trailer attached to the back of her automobile. Miss Pickerell was very fond of her cow. She always liked to take her cow with her when she went places.
She crossed the sidewalk and opened the door of the photograph studio.
Inside, Miss Pickerell put the gilt picture frame on a desk in the corner and closed the door behind her. A little bell attached to the top of the door tinkled, but for a moment there was no other sound.
This was the photographer's office, a small room with a number of pictures mounted on the wall. A curtained doorway separated the office from the photographer's working quarters. Miss Pickerell could smell the faint stinging smell of the chemicals the photographer used in his darkroom.
With a sudden swish, the curtain across the doorway was pushed aside, and the photographer appeared. He had gray hair and wore glasses.
"Good gracious!" he said, as he went around behind the desk. "It's Miss Pickerell!"
"I don't know why you should be so surprised," Miss Pickerell said. "I told you I might come back if I decided—"
"Was there something wrong with the picture I took of your cow last week?" the photographer asked.
"Not at all," Miss Pickerell said. "In fact—"
"Personally," said the photographer, "I thought it was excellent. Particularly the expression in her eyes."
"I agree with you," Miss Pickerell said. "That's why—"
"Most people are very well pleased with my work," said the photographer. "Most people think I'm such a good photographer that they ask me to take more pictures. Instead of coming back and complaining."
"I'm not complaining," Miss Pickerell said. "If you'd just—"
"However," said the photographer, "if you're not satisfied—"
"I'm perfectly satisfied," Miss Pickerell said. "I wouldn't be here if I weren't. The reason I came was—"
"It's unfortunate," the photographer said. He was leaning down turning the pages of his appointment book that was on his desk beside the telephone.
"It might be several weeks before I could take her picture over again. Why don't you reconsider, Miss Pickerell? It's really an excellent picture of your cow. It brings out her personality. I'm even going to put it in my display window to show what a good photographer I am—if you have no objections."
Miss Pickerell stepped up to the desk and stood directly in front of the photographer.
"May I ask you a personal question?" she asked.
The photographer looked up from his appointment book. "Certainly," he said.
"Is there something the matter with you? Is there something on your mind? Is something worrying you?"
The photographer opened his eyes quite wide and stared at Miss Pickerell.
"Why, yes!" he said. "There is! But I don't know how you could tell, Miss Pickerell."
"It's quite simple," said Miss Pickerell. "You haven't been paying attention to a single thing I've said."
The photographer closed his eyes and sighed heavily.
"It's about my son," he said.
Miss Pickerell started to ask him if he wanted to tell her what there was about his son that was worrying him, because she knew that sometimes things don't seem so bad if someone lets you talk about them. But then she remembered her cow, outside in the trailer. She didn't want to keep her cow waiting.
"I've been trying to tell you," Miss Pickerell said, "that I like the picture you took of my cow last week. I like it very much. I like it so much that I've decided to have you make an enlargement so I can have it framed and hang it on my living-room wall, right above where my rock collection is going to be when I get it back from Europe."
"Back from Europe?" The photographer seemed to have heard her this time, even though his eyes were still closed.
"It was the governor's idea," Miss Pickerell said. "After my collection of red rocks from Mars won the special gold medal at the state fair, the governor thought it would be nice if I allowed the collection to be exhibited in Europe, so that people there could see it too. The governor made all the arrangements. The exhibition in Europe is over now, and the governor is going to call and tell me just as soon as he finds out when my collection will arrive back in this country."
The photographer had opened his eyes again. He was staring down at the gilt picture frame Miss Pickerell had put on his desk.
"If you're wondering about that picture frame," Miss Pickerell said, "I brought it with me, so you could tell how big to make the enlargement of my cow's picture."
The photographer lifted the frame in both hands.
"Good gracious!" he said. "Look at this beautiful gilt picture frame! I wonder where it came from."
Miss Pickerell felt the muscles around her mouth grow tight with annoyance.
"It's plain to be seen," she said stiffly, "that there's no use trying to transact any business with you today."
She turned toward the door.
"I'll come back sometime when you don't have so much on your mind—when you can pay attention to what people are trying to tell you."
"Perhaps that would be better," the photographer said.
Miss Pickerell pulled the door open so angrily that the little bell on the top of it jangled shrilly.
"Oh, just a minute, Miss Pickerell!" the photographer said, coming out from behind his desk. "I've just had a wonderful idea. Why don't you let me make an enlargement of the picture I took of your cow? Then you could have it framed and hang it on your living-room wall, right above where your rock collection is going to be when you get it back from Europe."
Miss Pickerell stopped with her hand on the door. She took a very deep breath, and she made herself count to ten, very slowly. Then she turned around.
"That's a very good idea," she said. "I can't imagine how you ever happened to think of it! How soon will the picture be ready?"
"It will be ready by Thursday afternoon," the photographer said. "The only thing is, I won't be here."
"When will you be here?" Miss Pickerell asked. "When can I get it?"
"Thursday afternoon is when I take my swimming lesson," said the photographer. "I could ask my son to give you the enlargement Thursday afternoon. Except that my son won't be here either. About what size would you like the enlargement to be, Miss Pickerell? Personally, I think the same size as this gilt picture frame would be nice."
"I don't suppose," said Miss Pickerell, "that it would do any good to tell you again that that frame belongs to me! I brought it with me when I came in just now, so you could tell what size to make the picture."
"Is that a fact!" said the photographer. "I'll get right to work on the enlargement, Miss Pickerell. It's too bad my son isn't here so he could give it to you while I'm taking my swimming lesson. That's my son's picture." He pointed to a large picture on the wall. "I took that the last time he was home. He's in the Navy."
Miss Pickerell was much more interested in getting back to her cow, who had been quietly waiting in her trailer all this time, than she was in looking at the picture of the photographer's son. But she didn't think it would be polite to say so.
She walked across and looked at the picture.
"My son's name is Covington," said the photographer.
The picture was of a cheerful young man running across a field with a stick in his hand and a large dog beside him.
Miss Pickerell said, "I notice the dog is jumping over that stick in your son's hand. Did your son train him to do that?"
"Training animals to do tricks is Covington's hobby," the photographer said. "The only time Covington gets a chance to use his hobby, now that he's in the Navy, is when he gets a vacation."
"I'm sorry your son isn't home," Miss Pickerell said. "If he were, maybe he'd let me bring my nieces and nephews to watch him teaching his animals to do tricks. My nieces and nephews are coming to visit me next week—all seven of them. I've been trying to think of things they'd like to do."
"Covington likes his hobby," the photographer said, "because he can move around and stretch his muscles. Covington doesn't get a chance to do that very much, except when he has a vacation from the Navy."
Miss Pickerell wondered what kind of job Covington had that would keep him from moving around very much and stretching his muscles.
She looked more closely at the picture.
"What makes your son so pale?" she asked. "I should think anybody in the Navy would get lots of fresh air and sun out there in the middle of the ocean all the time."
But the photographer had stopped listening to her again. He was measuring the gilt picture frame and writing the size down on a piece of paper.
"About the enlargement," he said. "Would you prefer the full figure of your cow, Miss Pickerell? Or just the face?"
Miss Pickerell stepped back to the photographer's desk.
"Just the face," she said. "Can I get the enlargement Friday?"
"What worries me about Covington—" the photographer said. "Oh, excuse me, Miss Pickerell. That's my telephone ringing."
"Maybe it's for me," Miss Pickerell said, as the photographer picked up the phone on his desk. "I left word with the telephone operator that I'd be here, in case the governor called by long-distance to tell me how soon my rock collection is going to get back from Europe."
The photographer answered the phone. Then he looked at Miss Pickerell.
"Good gracious!" he said. "It's a long-distance call for you, Miss Pickerell. I wonder how the operator knew you were here!"
