Suds In Your Eye Read Free Page B

Tinkham called for Mrs. Feeley a little before six, she scarcely recognized her companion of the morning hours. Mrs. Feeley had evidently struggled into her “corsets” in honor of the occasion. Her hair was a froth of ringlets and she had on face powder. The black dotted Swiss dress she wore was beautifully crisp, and her tiny feet looked dainty in white canvas pumps.
    Miss Tinkham had exchanged her sequin cap for a large, dashing model of brown horsehair braid lavishly trimmed with kolinsky tails. She always thought there was nothing like a bit of fur to add richness to a costume.
    The classroom was partially filled when the two entered. Miss Tinkham took her regular place in the front row, and an elderly Greek confectioner moved over politely to let Mrs. Feeley have the desk next to her sponsor. Miss Tinkham introduced her to the students at near-by desks, and after returning their greetings Mrs. Feeley sat back to take in the sights.
    Some of the people were asking each other questions about the lesson, a few were writing things on the blackboard, and the rest were just visiting with each other. Mrs. Feeley was astonished to see the difference in the ages of the members of the class. That bald-headed old duffer with the pink cheeks is ninety if he’s a day, she thought. An’ that nice young feller over there looks like a college boy. Six sailors. Two marines. That couple over there must be man an’ wife; a handsome pair they are, too. Lots of old maids. Funny how you can always tell, ain’t it? Damned if she didn’t believe that short woman over there with the glasses was the Woman Evangelist who had held such a noisy revival a few weeks back on the vacant lot near the junk yard!’
    Before Mrs. Feeley could finish taking inventory, a small energetic-looking girl with a gay expression came in and set a briefcase down on the teacher’s desk. Miss Tinkham murmured in Mrs. Feeley’s ear:
    ‘That’s Miss Logan, our teacher!’
    ‘Gawd!’ Mrs. Feeley whispered back. ‘Ain’t she pretty? No bigger’n a sparrow! Young, too, to be teachin’ all them old fossils!’ Miss Logan started down the row on her evening routine of chat and inquiry before the bell should ring to start class officially.
    ‘How are you this evening, Miss Tinkham? And how is the housing problem coming along?’
    ‘Oh, things will work themselves out somehow! But right now I want you to meet our lovely guest, Mrs. Feeley. This is Miss Logan, our dear patient teacher.’
    Mrs. Feeley liked the firm little clasp of Miss Logan’s hand. Gawd deliver her from a fishy handshake! When Miss Logan smiled at her, Mrs. Feeley was well on her way toward taking up Spanish in earnest.
    ‘I hope you will like what we do here, and maybe learn a little something on the side,’ the teacher was saying when the bell rang.
    There was a great scuffing of papers and fluttering of textbooks while the class settled down.
    ‘The grammar portion of this evening’s lesson is devoted to the subject of gender. How many genders are there in the Spanish language?’
    After the very deaf Greek gentleman had answered to the teacher’s satisfaction, one of the marines held up his hand for a question.
    ‘Se ñ orita,’ he rumbled, ‘it says here the word for chalk is feminine. What I want to know is how the heck a person can tell if a piece of chalk is masculine or feminine?’
    The roar that followed the question drowned out the teacher’s answer, and it was several minutes before order was restored. Mrs. Feeley joined heartily in the laughter. This was much better than she had hoped for.
    ‘Abren sus libros de lectura,’ the teacher commanded, and they all opened their readers.
    ‘Se ñ ora McSparry, lea Vd. por favor.’
    And Mrs. McSparry read aloud in a language she fondly imagined was Spanish. Her voice rose at the end of every syllable, giving a weird hiccupy effect to her already far from accurate rendition.
    Mrs. Feeley turned in her chair to see who was