High Time Read Online Free Page A

about some things.
    Mrs. Feeley turned to Miss Tinkham.
    ‘Would you be too tired to play some real music for Darleen, ’long’s she likes it?’
    ‘Not at all!’ cried Miss Tinkham graciously; she rolled up her angel sleeves and carefully adjusted the creaking stool to the correct height, although no one ever used it but herself.
    ‘I think the Tschaikowski Romeo and Juliet theme would be appropriate,’ she beamed in a beery glow. The poignant melody with its aching love burden could not be totally obliterated even by Miss Tinkham’s fumbling rendition on the battered instrument.
    ‘Why, that’s “Our Love”!’ Darleen cried. ‘Only you don’t play it in swingtime! Sounds nice, though!’
    ‘Darleen!’ Mrs. Feeley trumpeted, ‘the way Miss Tinkham plays it is the way it had oughta be played! An’ if she says it’s “Romeo and Juliet,” “Romeo and Juliet” it is—an’ not “Our Love” nor no such baloney! That there’s classical! Pretty, too!’
    ‘Yes, ma’m,’ Darleen said, by now thoroughly squelched.
    Miss Tinkham soared to the heights of passion; she threw back her head and caroled unsteadily:
     
    ‘Lovely night, come!
    And with thy beauty hide our love!’
     
    Miss Grace Moore could have listened to Miss Tinkham with complete equanimity and little fear of competition.
    ‘Gawd!’ Mrs. Feeley cried admiringly. ‘Gives me duck-bumps up an’ down my arms! Don’t it you?’
    ‘It’s sure nice!’ Darleen agreed.
    Miss Tinkham turned around to accept their homage; her face was ecstatic.
    ‘Miss Tinkham, do you know “Pistol-Packin’ Mama”?’ Darleen asked shyly.
    ‘I can’t say that I do, but I’ll try it,’ Miss Tinkham, the ever-obliging, conceded graciously and was about to launch into her conception of the theme of an artillery-bearing mother when Mrs. Rasmussen yelled:
    ‘Chow down!’
    Miss Tinkham left the piano with more haste than dignity. Mrs. Feeley needed no urging either, and Darleen streamed along in her wake. Mrs. Rasmussen had set out the remains of the peppery cheese-mix, a green salad, rye hardtack, and a few of the rapidly dwindling roll-mops; she really did admire Darleen’s flaxen hair!
    Darleen inhaled the fragrance of her coffee while Mrs. Rasmussen piled a huge amount of food on her plate. ‘Don’t you never fix no lunches for your feller?’ she asked, between bites.
    ‘We generally go down for chop suey,’ Darleen said.
    ‘Chop suey!’ Mrs. Feeley cried, looking at her friends in horror. ‘How in hell can a man keep up his strength on chop suey? The Navy always wants steak an’ eggs! An’ apple pie, second!’
    ‘Johnny likes that, too,’ Darleen admitted.
    ‘Wouldn’t it be delightful if you could master the culinary art before he returns?’ Miss Tinkham mused. ‘Such a pretty domestic scene! Home is the sailor, home from the sea—and the beloved broiling hamburgers!’
    ‘Yeah. I could learn you,’ Mrs. Rasmussen agreed.
    ‘I can fix creamed chipped beef and goldenrod eggs,’ Darleen stated modestly.
    A pained expression passed over the faces of the Noah’s Arkies.
    ‘Every time I see food like that, I wonder if it’s somethin’ somebody’s gonna eat, or has already et!’ Mrs. Feeley stated.
    ‘Yeah. Kinda chewed-up-lookin’! You had oughta know how to cook any kind o’ meat real good, an’ how to cook eggs so they ain’t leathery, an’ how to cook with cheese. If you could make a real good French dressin’, hot biscuits, an’ a decent apple pie, you could hold your man, I don’t care how big a Ike he thinks he is!’ Mrs. Rasmussen knew the magic formula.
    ‘Could I learn to make a casserole dish, do you think? Johnny took me to a swell place one time and we had a casserole apiece, smoking hot, and he told me it was his favorite food!’ Darleen said eagerly.
    ‘Hell, that ain’t nothin’ but galley-sweepin’ stew!’ said Mrs. Feeley, the sea-going.
    ‘I’d try hard if you’d show me!’ Darleen