SHORT STORY BY O’HENRY No Story Đây là một serries truyện ngắn anh ngữ nổi tiếng với những từ vựng quen thuộc. Nhằm giúp các em và các bạn yêu thich tiếng anh luyện tập và củng cố thêm kỹ năng đọc tiếng anh | SHORT STORY BY O HENRY No Story To avoid having this book hurled into corner of the room by the suspicious reader I will assert in time that this is not a newspaper story. You will encounter no shirt-sleeved omniscient city editor no prodigy cub reporter just off the farm no scoop no story--no anything. But if you will concede me the setting of the first scene in the reporters room of the Morning Beacon I will repay the favor by keeping strictly my promises set forth above. I was doing space-work on the Beacon hoping to be put on a salary. Some one had cleared with a rake or a shovel a small space for me at the end of a long table piled high with exchanges Congressional Records and old files. There I did my work. I wrote whatever the city whispered or roared or chuckled to me on my diligent wanderings about its streets. My income was not regular. One day Tripp came in and leaned on my table. Tripp was something in the mechanical department--I think he had something to do with the pictures for he smelled of photographers supplies and his hands were always stained and cut up with acids. He was about twenty-five and looked forty. Half of his face was covered with short curly red whiskers that looked like a door-mat with the welcome left off. He was pale and unhealthy and miserable and fawning and an assiduous borrower of sums ranging from twenty-five cents to a dollar. One dollar was his limit. He knew the extent of his credit as well as the Chemical National Bank knows the amount of H20 that collateral will show on analysis. When he sat on my table he held one hand with the other to keep both from shaking. Whiskey. He had a spurious air of lightness and bravado about him that deceived no one but was useful in his borrowing because it was so pitifully and perceptibly assumed. This day I had coaxed from the cashier five shining silver dollars as a grumbling advance on a story that the Sunday editor had reluctantly accepted. So if I was not feeling at peace with the .
