Bicycle Built for Two Read Online Free PDF

neither here nor
there. She had to prepare for her act, and that dratted black
velvet band around her neck looked stupid. “Oh, who cares?” she
said at last. Better an article of clothing that looked out of
place than a series of black-and-blue finger marks. Besides, she
was pretty sure none of her American dance-watchers would know an
Egyptian costume from one from outer Mongolia or even Mars.
    Turning, she picked up her scarf, a pretty
peacock-blue number that shimmered like fish scales in the
electrical lights. The whole effect of her clad as she was, when
combined with those weird bagpipes and drums of the native
musicians, was exotic, to say the least.
    The peculiar wailing of the Egyptian music
had irked Kate when she’d first heard it, but she was becoming used
to it. She’d learned, much to her sorrow, that a person could get
used to darned near anything if her livelihood depended on it.
Therefore, she walked from the dressing room to the stage and
waited behind the curtain, tipping winks and grins to the people
working behind the scenes. They all liked her. Kate had made sure
of it.
    The bagpipes which, Kate had been told, were
made of goats’ bladders, at last squealed out a familiar tune, the
drummers started whacking on their drums, and Kate took a deep
breath. She was always nervous before she danced, although the
state didn’t last long. Her cue came rattling at her on a drumbeat,
and she whirled out on stage, making sure her scarf did its duty.
Thunderous applause greeted her. Kate didn’t take it personally.
The fools all probably thought she was Little Egypt herself instead
of Little Egypt’s American stand-in.
    Kate danced her heart out, as she did every
evening, and left the stage as she’d arrived upon it, in a whirl of
peacock-blue scarf to the sound of cheers and claps and funny,
squealy, Egyptian music. “Phew!” She winked at one of the drummers,
who grinned back at her.
    At first, she knew, she’d shocked these men
who took their art so seriously with her free-and-easy ways. Those
guys didn’t know they were from a backward nation. All they knew
was that they were sharing with interested American persons their
culture, which they loved every bit as much as any American loved
his. Kate identified with them strangely. Often she felt as though
she were participating in an American culture with which she had
little, if anything, in common.
    She went to the dressing room and took a
glass of water because dancing made her thirsty. She danced twice
on a typical evening, in order to give Little Egypt the opportunity
to have a little supper. Or a lot of supper. Little Egypt was a
meaty dish. She was a lot meatier than Kate, but nobody watching
seemed to mind.
    By the time she’d told fortunes all day and
danced half the night away, Kate was always tired. After her second
performance this evening, she was particularly worn out, probably
because of her ordeal the day before and her constant, nagging fear
for her mother’s health. Not to mention the possibility that her
only source of income might be cut off at the whim of that idiot
Alex English. She washed every smidgeon of makeup off and gladly
exchanged her costume and dancing shoes for more comfortable
garb.
    Clad in a dark skirt and jacket, white
shirtwaist, and neatly tied ascot, she left the Egyptian Pavilion.
She’d knotted her hair up and plopped a hat on top of it, and
looked like neither Gypsy fortune teller nor Egyptian dancer. Thus
clad, she was seldom recognized by the public she served, which was
the whole point.
    Kate was, therefore, startled, when a small
boy ran up to her and shouted, “Miss Kate Finney?”
    Taken aback, she said, “Who wants to know?”
which was the question people in her neighborhood always asked
before admitting identity. After all, the person asking might
represent a bill collector or an officer of the law.
    The boy said, “Jerry O’Hallahan, but I don’t
really care who you are unless you’re Kate