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 THE CHEF

A Colorado Grizzlies Standalone Hockey Romance

Skylar Platt
 Contents

Copyright
Dedication
AUTHOR’S NOTE
1. CHAPTER ONE
2. CHAPTER TWO
3. CHAPTER THREE
4. CHAPTER FOUR
5. CHAPTER FIVE
6. CHAPTER SIX
7. CHAPTER SEVEN
8. CHAPTER EIGHT
9. CHAPTER NINE
10. CHAPTER TEN
11. CHAPTER ELEVEN
12. CHAPTER TWELVE
13. CHAPTER THIRTEEN
14. CHAPTER FOURTEEN
15. CHAPTER FIFTEEN
16. CHAPTER SIXTEEN
17. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
18. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
19. CHAPTER NINETEEN
20. CHAPTER TWENTY
21. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
22. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
23. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
24. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
EPILOGUE
ALSO BY SKYLAR PLATT
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
THE CHEF

By Skylar Platt

Copyright © 2024 by Skylar Platt

This book is a work of fiction. All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted without written
permission from the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Design by Maldo Designs

Formatting by Maldo Designs

Website https://skylarplattauthor.com/

Newsletter https://skylarplattauthor.com/newsletter/

Instagram www.instagram.com/skylarplattauthor

tiktok https://www.tiktok.com/@skylarplattauthor

Facebook Group www.facebook.com/groups/skylarsswoonroom

For everyone who believes the best ingredient of all is love
 If you watch Top Chef, it will be very clear to you I have based this
book on that show. I am a huge fan and always have been. But
please note this book is a work of fiction and I have taken liberties
with the rules and behind-the-scenes stuff that I am not privy to for
the purposes of this story.
This story was born from Top Chef, specifically the friends and/or
family episode. I wondered what if one of the competing chefs has
no friends or family to be there? This is my answer to that what if?
I hope you enjoy Grant and Evan’s story!
Use me, Evan. I’m yours.
 Chapter One

Professional athletes.
What the hell do they know about food? What kind of palate could
they have for food at this level when all they know how to do is
consume large amounts of carbs to fuel their bodies for the games
they play?
Games.
But I guess I’m playing a game now too. A game I intend to win.
I need this.
I need to win this. I have to win this.
Cameras are rolling. Get it together Grant. I’ve never competed in
a cooking competition before. It’s the thing now, though. Competing
with other chefs. Showcasing your food in a sometimes-baffling
competition on a national stage. When did this become a thing? I’m
a damn chef. I want my food to speak for me. I don’t care about
being a celebrity. I don’t care about being on camera. I do care
about my food. And at this moment, I care a whole hell of a lot
about my ruined reputation. And that is why I am here.
I continue to prep the small plates of homemade ravioli and line
them up in rows to prepare for the onslaught. It’s a gorgeous day in
Denver. The state flags hanging across the pedestrian-only section of
Larimer Street are gently swaying in the breeze. The smack talking
between chefs has dulled and the sounds of dishes clinking fills the
street.
“Here we go…” someone a few tents down from me says.
I glance up to see a mass of enormous men wearing team jerseys
of all descriptions scatter in groups along the street. We’re serving
all the men’s professional sports teams in Denver today. Football,
baseball, hockey, basketball and soccer. And what’s worse, they get
to vote. They get a say in who wins and who goes home today in
the first elimination challenge of this season of Head Chef. AND, this
is a vegetarian challenge. I am a master at veggie-forward dishes.
This is a gimme. I will win this. I have to win this.
But athletes. Don’t these guys thrive on meat and carbs? I know
next to nothing about sports. I know what they are. I know Chicago
is a sports crazed city, and it was impossible to grow up there and
not at least know the team names. Beyond that, my side of the city
didn’t partake much in sports. Some street hoops. Easy to find a
pickup game on any corner. Beyond that, not much.
I made pasta. They love pasta, right? Homemade pasta and my
own ricotta. It was a risk. A risk I felt I had to take.
My tent is at the end. They won’t get to me for a few minutes. I
take a deep breath and place a few more plates out. My plates are
gorgeous. My food has always been gorgeous. And it has always
tasted even better than it looks. I had two Michelin stars in Chicago.
But even that wasn’t enough to overcome a pandemic or a shady
business partner who robbed me blind and disgraced my reputation.
I lost everything, my restaurant, my husband, my family and,
worst of all, my faith in myself.
Crap. Four gigantic men wearing jerseys with an enormous
snarling bear are heading straight for me. The Grizzlies. Hockey.
That’s the hockey team, right? I live in Colorado now; I guess I
should know these things. They start at the far end of the block and
work their way back. Smart. No lines down here yet.
I look at the tiny plates with the homemade ravioli filled with
ricotta, spinach and a hint of orange. Herbs flavor the bright green
sauce that the ravioli is nestled in. Delicate. Everything about this
dish is delicate and bright. Something these guys are decidedly not.
 Young. They look so young. I smile and describe the dish to them.
They nod politely and devour the cheese-filled square. One bite. It’s
one bite. One perfect bite. But it’s also meant to be tasted. Savored.
The nuance of each ingredient appreciated.
Dismay sinks into my veins as three of the burly men move on. It’s
only the first challenge, Grant. You won’t win them all. Eye on the
prize, man. Do you want to win challenges or the whole damn thing?
My damn defeatist voice rationalizes everything. Giving me an out.
What if I want to win everything? Why the hell shouldn’t I? I am the
best chef here. There is only one person here who can even hold a
candle to my cooking.
I see one of the players holding the plate in his hand and lift it to
his nose. I don’t know if I should feel offended or impressed. His
smile has me leaning towards the latter.
He doesn’t devour the ravioli in one bite. I furrow my brow as I
watch his full lips surround it and bite it in half. He examines the
interior of the ravioli and, apparently satisfied, takes the rest of it
into his mouth. He shakes his head slightly to flip one of his dirty
blond curls out of his face. What are you thinking, hotshot?
Their presence here attracts more players, and it’s game on.
I don’t have the luxury of trying to dissect the expressions of
everyone tasting my food. The player who deigned to sniff my food
turns his back to me when I glance over again. Did he like it?
Why do I even care?
There are dozens more players lining up to taste now. I don’t have
time to wonder if the smile that hit his face when he smelled my
food remained or grew larger as he tasted it. I don’t have time to
wonder why he turned his back to me before he tasted it. I don’t
have time to wonder what the twinkle in those pale blue eyes looked
like when my food hit his tongue. I don’t have time to search the
crowd for that tight round ass his jersey and jeans do not hide.
I don’t have time for any of that.
And yet…
Judges…shit…. judges….
“Grant,” head judge, Enzo Berardi says. “Tell us what you have
here.”
 I nod. “Ravioli filled with homemade ricotta,” I see his eyebrows
raise at that one. “A hint of orange, sitting in a sauce of fresh herbs
and garlic oil.”
“You made ricotta? And pasta?”
I nod.
The other judges smile, mouths full, and I imagine the burst of
cheese and herbs marrying in their mouths.
“Nicely done,” Enzo says. He gives me a small wink and nod before
moving on.
I nod back again and exhale. He went to bat for me. He pushed to
bring me on this show. I was hesitant. As were the producers, given
my reputation. My unearned reputation. It was one incident. One
incident that is apparently going to define me. Not if I win this show.
That’s why I’m here. Redemption. And Enzo went to bat for me to
make it happen. And that nod…with one bite, I made sure he has no
regrets about that decision.

“Grant?”
I turn and come face to face with the hockey player who had been
one of the first to try my dish. He smiles warmly at me. The hockey
player who sniffed my food before plopping it into his mouth. A
mouth I’m now staring at.
“That was the most incredible bite of food I’ve had in a very, very
long time,” he says. “Far and away the best thing I tasted all day.”
Wow. I swallow hard and exhale. “Thank you, I really appreciate
that.” And I do. He seems to really mean it. After all, it was the first
thing he tasted today, and it made enough of an impression that he
came back to me. For a fleeting moment, I recalled why I love
cooking and creating. To make people happy. To evoke smiles and
feelings. To create unforgettable bites of food. Michelin stars and
quarter-million-dollar competitions don’t matter—until they do.
“Evan,” he sticks his hand out.
I take it and hold on a bit too long. His hand is big and strong and
warm. If he notices I don’t want to let go, he doesn’t reveal that. Or
he’s not bothered by it.
“Good luck,” he says and then adds, “I don’t think you need it.”
“Thank you so much…Evan. Great to meet you.”
“You’re in Castle Rock?” he asks.
I nod. He’s asked questions. He’s intrigued enough to ask
questions. For a moment that sends something unfamiliar fluttering
through my chest. That also means as soon as he has access to his
phone again, he’s likely to search the internet and when he does
that, confirming that I am indeed mired in Castle Rock as a sous
chef will not be the only thing he learns.
I nod.
“You need to be up here,” he says. He points firmly at the ground
when he says it. “You need to be in Denver.”
I do, I think. Long story, I add in my head. One I’d love to share
with this man. We stare at each other for a long moment. My heart
sinks a bit when he turns away. I can find him again though. He
plays hockey here. I am a formerly famous chef. I have
connections…ha, well, I did. And come on, Grant. He’s an athlete. A
very young athlete who likely isn’t gay. So why do I even care…as I
continue to grapple with my bizarre reaction to him and desire to
find him again, Evan turns back to me and grabs a napkin and a pen
out of the cup next to the voting box. I smile at the old school
exchange of phone numbers.
“Let me know how this turns out today. I don’t think they’ll tell us.”
“They won’t.” I respond. Everything about this competition is top
secret for months. Air-tight non-disclosure agreements are signed by
everyone involved. And I mean everyone. It’s one reason he doesn’t
have a phone with him. Without hesitation, I take the napkin. Too
eagerly? Maybe. Our fingers graze and I pull away too quickly and
look at the number written in big block numbers on the flimsy cloth.
He scrawled his name in cursive below the number. His autograph. I
chuckle.
“Habit,” he says, reading my thoughts.
Evan P? “What’s the P for?”
“Palmer. Evan Palmer,” he says in a mock James Bond voice.
We smile at each other, and I get lost looking at those full lips
again. My fingers twitch at thoughts of spearing into that mop of
blond hair he can’t seem to control. He reaches up and brushes it
away from his face, as I have the thought of doing it for him.
I hold the napkin up as a thank you and place it in my pocket. “I’ll
let you know.”
 Chapter Two

I’m stuffed.
Food. Free food and lots of it. What more could a group of
perpetually hungry athletes want? Saying yes to this gig wasn’t hard.
Although, it also wasn’t exactly optional. I’d heard of the show, but
beyond that, watching people cook…not really that interesting to
me.
Travis Gordon, one of our defensemen, was beside himself with
excitement when we were told we got to be the guests and the
judges for the first challenge of Head Chef this season. Travis has
been obsessed with this show ever since he started bingeing it to
learn to cook something for his wife Brittany. She was his girlfriend
then, and from what I understand, that term is stretching it. Travis
was the ultimate player, new girl in every city, hell, every trip. I
didn’t really know him then. But he claims this show helped him win
Brittany over. And he fan-boys out over the head judge like he is a
rock star. Travis is among the athletes sampling food with the
judges. He and the star running back from the football team.
The rest of us are on our own, which is fine by me. I’m not the
best at being the center of attention unless I’m on the ice. I’m just
here because they told me to be. That and I do love food. As is
clearly evidenced by the pain in my stomach at the moment. I
glance back at the man I just gave my number to. As full as I am, if
he still had food available at his tent, I’d turn around and devour
every last bite. All the food was amazing, and it was all vegetarian.
I’m not exactly what you would call a foodie. I like food. I like to eat
a lot. And I do eat a lot. My lifestyle requires it.
I’m not a picky eater, but I’m a meat and potatoes boy from Nova
Scotia. I grew up eating spiced meat pies and spaghetti. We had
blueberries. Oh man, the best blueberries. I’ve not tasted any that
will ever be as good as the ones we grew in our backyard. Everyone
in the neighborhood had them growing and everyone had their own
specialty…pies, jams, crumbles. And everyone would share. It was
great. My mom makes blueberry syrup. So simple, yet I’ve never
tasted any that tastes like hers.
I meant what I told Grant. His food was far and away the best bite
I had all day. I still recall the brightness of it. The way it popped
inside my mouth and brought my tastebuds to life. There is no more
food to be had. But I turn around anyway, just to get a glimpse of
him again. He’s not what I ever would have expected a chef to be
like. I imagined chefs as paunchy older men who’d done way too
much taste-testing through the years. Have I ever really seen a
chef? I’ve never watched any of these shows.
None of the chefs here today look like what I had imagined a chef
to be. And none of the others look like Grant.
Grant looks more like he is the leader of a motorcycle gang than a
restaurant. Or a rock star. Yep, I could see him belting out some
heavy metal with a guitar strapped around his thick neck. His large
hands wrapped around a mic. Women swooning…screaming at him.
He is lean and muscular. And tall. He’s actually taller than me and
I’m 6-2. I’m not around guys taller than me very often unless they
are other athletes. He has tattoos. His rolled-up sleeves reveal lots
of ink. I watch as he rolls his sleeves up one more time to continue
cleaning up around his tent. I’m close enough to see flashes of color
in that ink, but not details of what is there.
He intrigues me. And I want to know more. About his food. More
about his food. I furrow my brow slightly because I can’t seem to
look away. If I had access to my phone, I’d be searching the
internet. But since I don’t, my only option is to stand here and stare
at him. I’m noticing more things about him. The dark hair flecked
with gray. How old is he? The five o’clock shadow along his narrow
jaw. The way the muscles in his arms ripple as he cleans his knives.
His hands hold them delicately as he slides them into a leather case,
which he rolls up and sets to the side.
“Evan!”
The shout of my name breaks my trance. Grant hears it too. He
looks up and catches me staring at him. I feel heat rise to my
cheeks. Did he look because he heard my name? Did he look just
because of the loud shout coming from down the street?
“Earth to Evan,” Shaker shouts again. “Let’s go man.”
I tear my eyes away from Grant. But his eyes are on me now and I
try not to look back. Don’t look back. Don’t look back. But I do.
Grant is still watching me. He has stopped cleaning around his
cooking station. He’s focused on me. Only on me. And when I finally
allow myself to meet those eyes, he grins. Just a tiny one. Enough
that even from afar, I can see the small crease that forms in his
cheek when he smiles. The marriage of a smile line and a dimple.
And enough of one that I feel it. Feel what? Something. I feel
something stir inside me. Something familiar, but also not.
Something I’ve felt on very rare occasions when an attractive woman
smiles at me. That happens all the time. But they aren’t smiling at
me, necessarily. They are smiling at a hockey player who happens to
be me. I’ve felt nothing like this when looking at a man. But I’ve
never seen a man quite like Grant Weaver.
day, I had forgotten my original reason for looking—to see his
schedule. The team schedule.
“So, you probably really are starving.”
“I am,” he says.
“Where do you live?”
“The Highlands.”
That means nothing to me, and he knows it. The ping of a text fills
the void of the conversation.
“That’s my address. I don’t know where they have you staying, but
as long as you aren’t far out in the burbs, it’s a quick Uber. Hell, at this
hour on a weeknight, it’s a quick Uber from anywhere.”
I feel my head nodding. “Do you have food in your house?” I’m
suddenly suspect of what I might find in the house of a very wealthy,
very young, never at home professional athlete.
He chuckles and sighs. “You’re the chef. Come over and see. This
could be your Quickfire challenge for the night.”
I smile. Shit, I really do like this guy. A five-minute conversation and
I’ve smiled the entire time.

Turns out his townhouse is just across town…barely a five-minute

Uber.
He opens the door before I even get up the steps and something
about the fact that he was waiting, watching, knew exactly when I
arrived, fills me up and sends those damn butterflies fluttering around
in my stomach again.
“Hey,” I say as I step by him. He still smells like the shower he took
right after the game. That and some citrusy freshness that is making
my mouth water. I glance back at him as he shuts the door and turns
Another random document with
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 “Yes, querida.”
Hand in hand, the lovers left the adobe, and the somber echoing
tunnel, with the electric wires seen like a spider’s web across its
farther end, was to them an underground passage to Paradise.
—Copyright, and used by kind consent of the author.
Note.—Spanish words are pronounced according to the continental
pronunciation, and each vowel is given a syllable. “Si Ma-dre,” pronounced See
Ma´dray, yes, mother. “Ma-ma-ci-ta,” pronounced Ma-ma-cee-tah, little mother.
“Sin Ver-gu-en-za,” pronounced Seen Vehr-goo-ain´tha, shameless. “Que-ri-di-ta,”
pronounced Kay-ree-dee´tah, little love. “Por-ta-les,” pronounced Por-tah´lays,
covered sidewalks. “Gente decente,” pronounced Hen´tay day-then´tay, the
aristocracy. “Coch-i-no,” pronounced Co-chee´no, pig. “Lin-di-ta,” pronounced
Leen-dee´ta, pretty. “Que-ri-da,” pronounced Kay-ree´da, beloved.

THE INTERVENTION OF PETER

By Paul Laurence Dunbar
No one knows just what statement it was of Harrison Randolph’s
that Bob Lee doubted. The annals of these two Virginia families have
not told us that. But these are the facts:
It was at the home of the Fairfaxes that a few of the sons of the old
Dominion were giving a dinner, and a brave dinner it was. The
courses had come and gone, and over their cigars they had waxed
more than merry. In those days men drank deep, and these men
were young, full of the warm blood of the South and the joy of living.
What wonder then that the liquor that had been mellowing in the
Fairfax cellars since the boyhood of their revolutionary ancestor
should have its effect upon them?
It is true that it was only a slight thing which Bob Lee affected to
disbelieve, and that his tone was jocosely bantering rather than
impertinent. But sometimes Virginia heads are not less hot than
Virginia hearts. The two young men belonged to families that had
intermarried. They rode together, hunted together and were friends
as far as two men could be who had read the message of love in the
dark eyes of the same woman. So perhaps there was some thought
of the long-contested hand of Miss Sallie Ford in Harrison
Randolph’s mind when he chose to believe that his honor had been
assailed.
His dignity was admirable. There was no scene to speak of. It was
all very genteel.
“Mr. Lee,” he said, “had chosen to doubt his word, which to a
gentleman was a final insult. But he felt sure that Mr. Lee would not
refuse to accord him a gentleman’s satisfaction.” And the other’s
face had waxed warm and red and his voice cold as he replied: “I
shall be most happy to give you the satisfaction you demand.”
Here friends interposed and attempted to pacify the two. But
without avail.
Each of the young men nodded to a friend and rose to depart. The
joyous dinner-party bade fair to end with much more serious
business.

“You shall hear from me very shortly,” said Randolph, as he strode

to the door.
“I shall await your pleasure with impatience, sir, and give you such
a reply as even you cannot disdain.”
Peter, the personal attendant of Harrison Randolph, stood at the
door as his master passed out, and went on before him to hold his
stirrup. The young master and his friend and cousin, Dale, started off
briskly and in silence, while Pete, with wide eyes and disturbed face,
followed on behind. Just as they were turning into the avenue of
elms that led to their own house, Randolph wheeled his horse and
came riding back to his servant.
“Pete,” said he sternly, “what do you know?”
“Nuffin’, Mas’ Ha’ison, nuffin’ ’t all. I do’ know nuffin’.”
“I don’t believe you.” The young master’s eyes were shining
through the dusk. “You’re always slipping around spying on me.”
 “Now, dah you goes, Mas’ Randolph. I ain’t done a thing, and you
got to ’mence pickin’ on me—”
“I just want you to remember that my business is mine.”
“Well, I knows dat.”
“And if you do know anything, it will be well for you to begin
forgetting it right now. Take Bess around and see her attended to.
Leave Dale’s horse here, and—I won’t want you any more to-night.”
Pete turned away with an injured expression on his dark face.
“Bess,” he said to the spirited black mare, as he led her toward the
stables, “you jes’ better t’ank yo’ Makah dat you ain’t no human
bein’, ’ca’se human bein’s is cur’ous articles. Now you’s a horse,
ain’t you? And dey say you ain’t got no soul, but you got sense,
Bess, you got sense. You’s a high steppah, too, but you don’ go to
work an’ try to brek yo’ naik de fus’ chanst you git. Bess, I ’spect you
’ca’se you got jedgment, an’ you don’ have to have a black man
runnin’ aftah you all de time plannin’ his head off jes’ to keep you out
o’ trouble. Some folks dat’s human bein’s does. Yet an’ still, Bess,
you ain’t nuffin’ but a dumb beas’, so dey says. Now, what I gwine to
do? Co’se dey wants to fight. But whah an’ when an’ how I gwine to
stop hit? Doan want me to wait on him to-night, huh! No, dey want to
mek dey plans an’ do’ want me ’roun’ to hyeah, dat’s what’s de
mattah. Well, I lay I’ll hyeah somep’n’ anyhow.”
Peter hurried through his work and took himself up to the big
house and straight to his master’s room. He heard voices within, but
though he took many liberties with his owner, eavesdropping was not
one of them. It proved too dangerous. So, though he lingered on the
mat, it was not for long, and he unceremoniously pushed the door
open and walked in. With a great show of haste, he made for his
master’s wardrobe and began busily searching among the articles
therein. Harrison Randolph and his cousin were in the room, and
their conversation, which had been animated, suddenly ceased
when Peter entered.
“I thought I told you I didn’t want you any more to-night.”
 “I’s a-lookin’ fu’ dem striped pants o’ yo’n. I want to tek ’m out an’
bresh ’em; dey’s pintly a livin’ sight.”
“You get out o’ here.”
“But, Mas’ Ha’ison, now—now—look-a-hyeah—”
“Get out, I tell you.”
Pete shuffled from the room, mumbling as he went: “Dah now, dah
now! driv’ out lak’ a dog! How’s I gwine to fin’ out anyt’ing dis way? It
do ’pear lak Mas’ Ha’ison do try to give me all de trouble he know
how. Now he plannin’ and prijickin’ wif dat cousin Dale an’ one jes’
ez scattah-brained ez de othah. Well, I ’low I got to beat dis time
somehow er ruther.”
He was still lingering hopeless and worried about the house when
he saw young Dale Randolph come out, mount his horse, and ride
away. After a while his young master also came out and walked up
and down in the soft evening air. The rest of the family were seated
about on the broad piazza.
“I wonder what is the matter with Harrison to-night,” said the young
man’s father, “he seems so preoccupied.”
“Thinking of Sallie Ford, I reckon,” some one replied; and the
remark passed with a laugh. Pete was near enough to catch this, but
he did not stop to set them right in their conjectures. He slipped into
the house.
It was less than two hours after this when Dale Randolph returned
and went immediately to his cousin’s room, where Harrison followed
him.
“Well?” said the latter, as soon as the door closed behind them.
“It’s all arranged, and he’s anxious to hurry it through for fear some
one may interfere. Pistols, and to-morrow morning at daybreak.”
“And the place?”
“The little stretch of woods that borders Ford’s Creek. I say,
Harrison, it isn’t too late to stop this thing yet. It’s a shame for you
two fellows to fight. You’re both too decent to be killed yet.”
 “He insulted me.”
“Without intention, every one believes.”
“Then let him apologize.”
“As well ask the devil to take Communion.”
“We’ll fight then.”
“All right. If you must fight you must. But you’d better go to bed, for
you’ll need a strong arm and a steady hand to-morrow.”
“I’m going to write a couple of letters first,” he said; “then I shall lie
down for an hour or so. And, by the way, Dale, if I—if it happens to
be me to-morrow, you take Pete; he’s a good fellow.”
The cousins clasped hands in silence and passed out. As the door
closed behind them a dusky form rolled out from under the bed and
the disreputable, eavesdropping, backsliding Peter stood up and
rubbed a sleeve across his eyes.
“It ain’t me dat’s gwine to be give to nobody else. I hates to do it;
but dey ain’t no othah way. Mas’ Ha’ison cain’t be spaihed.” He
glided out mysteriously, some plan of salvation working in his black
head.

Just before daybreak next morning three stealthy figures crept out
and made their way toward Ford’s Creek. One skulked behind the
other two, dogging their steps and taking advantage of the darkness
to keep very near to them. At the grim trysting-place they halted and
were soon joined by other stealthy figures, and together they sat
down to wait for the daylight. The seconds conferred for a few
minutes. The ground was paced off, and a few, low-pitched orders
prepared the young men for business.
“I will count three, gentlemen,” said Lieutenant Custis. “At three,
you are to fire.”
At last daylight came, gray and timid at first, and then red and bold
as the sun came clearly up. The pistols were examined and the men
placed face to face.
 “Are you ready, gentlemen?”
But evidently Harrison Randolph was not. He was paying no
attention to the seconds. His eyes were fixed on an object behind his
opponent’s back. His attitude relaxed and his mouth began to twitch.
Then he burst into a peal of laughter.
“Pete,” he roared, “drop that and come out from there!” and away
he went into another convulsion of mirth. The others turned just in
time to see Pete cease his frantic grimaces of secrecy at his master,
and sheepishly lower an ancient fowling-piece which he had had
leveled at Bob Lee.
“What were you going to do with that gun leveled at me?” asked
Lee, his own face twitching.
“I was gwine to fiah jes’ befo’ dey said free. I wa’n’t gwine to kill
you, Mas’ Bob. I was on’y gwine to lame you.”
Another peal of laughter from the whole crowd followed this
condescending statement.
“You unconscionable scoundrel, you! If I was your master, I’d give
you a hundred lashes.”
“Pete,” said his master, “don’t you know that it is dishonorable to
shoot a man from behind? You see you haven’t in you the making of
a gentleman.”
“I do’ know nuffin’ ’bout mekin’ a gent’man, but I does know how to
save one dat’s already made.”
The prime object of the meeting had been entirely forgotten. They
gathered around Pete and examined the weapon.
“Gentlemen,” said Randolph, “we have been saved by a miracle.
This old gun, as well as I can remember and count, has been loaded
for the past twenty-five years, and if Pete had tried to fire it, it would
have torn up all this part of the country.”
Then the eyes of the two combatants met. There was something
irresistibly funny in the whole situation, and they found themselves
roaring again. Then, with one impulse, they shook hands without a
word.
And Pete led the way home, the willing butt of a volume of good-
natured abuse.—From “Folks from Dixie,” copyright by Dodd, Mead
& Company, New York, and used by arrangement.
 PART THREE
Melodious Reading
Conversational elements: Pitch, Inflection, Color, Stress, Pause,
Movement, Time. Separate discussions and illustrations with number
of exercises for the pupil to practice. Melody in verse and in prose.

EXPRESSIVE SPEECH[9]
By Robert Lloyd

’Tis not enough the voice be sound and clear,

’Tis modulation that must charm the ear.
When desperate heroines grieve with tedious moan,
And whine their sorrows in a see-saw tone,
The same soft sounds of unimpassioned woes
Can only make the yawning hearer doze.

That voice all modes of passion can express

Which marks the proper word with proper stress;
But none emphatic can the reader call
Who lays an equal emphasis on all.
...
He who in earnest studies o’er his part
Will find true nature cling about his heart.
The modes of grief are not included all
In the white handkerchief and mournful drawl.
A single look more marks the internal woe
Than all the windings of the lengthened O!
Up to the face the quick sensation flies,
And darts its meaning from the speaking eyes.
Love, transport, madness, anger, scorn, despair,
And all the passions, all the soul is there.
 CHAPTER X
MELODIOUS READING

What charm and delight surround a sweet, melodious voice,

whether of woman or man. Who is there that does not recall such a
voice and its influence upon him? Who does not have clinging
memories of the voice of the mother, crooning over her babe, or
singing a sweet lullaby as it lay at her breast; of a father, softening its
strong and resonant power to soothe the restlessness of his little one
who was sick; of the blushing maiden, who consciously or
unconsciously had learned the immeasurably greater power
exercised over her fellows, whether of her own or the opposite sex,
by a soft, pure, well-controlled voice, rather than the high-pitched,
tense, loud and harsh chatter of her associates. The calm, quiet, soft
and low-pitched, though firm, voice of the teacher, the parent, the
employer, the salesman, the speaker, the statesman, is far more
effective, far more likely to attain its end than the harsh, raucous,
loud, too emphatic and high-pitched voice of the uncontrolled,
untaught, or careless speaker. And to listen to a reader, be he
preacher, lawyer, judge, or orator, reading in public to a large
audience, or for the pleasure and instruction of his own loved ones,
or a few chosen friends, whose voice is melodious in every cadence,
whose every intonation is musical and in good taste, what joy such a
reader is able to bestow. How memory thrills as we recall a few
readers of this type. Why should they be so few? Why should there
be so many harsh, nasal, raucous, high-pitched, unmelodious
voices? The reason is found mainly in lack of training, lack of a little
thought, indifference to the possession of the finer gifts of life. For
every boy and girl has it in his or her power, by the exercise of a little
care, a little thought, a little self-restraint, a little time spent in
discipline to produce the sweet and charming voice, with clean-cut,
distinct, pleasing enunciation and pronunciation that will afford joy
during the whole of a long life.
 One’s own ear will tell whether his voice is properly pitched,
pleasing, melodious, or the opposite. A few minutes spent in speech
daily before a looking-glass will forever fix the habit of making the
face pleasing; and an hour a day for a month will fix perfect habits of
pronunciation and enunciation that will remain through life. When
these arts are fixed, then a few hours’ study of the thought of the
author and the inflections and modulations of the voice necessary to
represent, to convey to the ear of the listener, the full power of that
thought, and the reader has equipped himself, herself, to give joy to
countless thousands. Is it not worth while to spend a few hours to
gain such power?

Exercises in Inflection
By inflection is meant the glide of the voice within a word to a
higher or a lower pitch. This glide may be quick and short, or long
and slow. It may be a rising or a falling glide, or both. The value of
inflection rests in its power to make what is said more emphatic, to
aid in clear enunciation, to aid in overcoming monotony. On all
emphasized words we have an intensified inflection. This is
illustrated in Portia’s speech in “The Merchant of Venice.” In studying
this excerpt we discover that all the emphasized words have a
pronounced inflection. In the first group of words, “If to do were as
easy as to know what were good to do,” we find the most intensified
inflection is upon the word “know” because this is the most emphatic
word of the group. This reveals that inflection is one of the most vital
means of emphasis.
In regard to inflection as an aid to clear enunciation, we find that
inflection occurs upon the accented syllable of a long word, and if
due attention is given to the syllable upon which the accent falls, the
word will receive a more perfect utterance. For instance, we can
readily see in the following words, which are often mispronounced,
the important part that inflection plays in the proper pronunciation of
them:

abdomen
abject
acclimate
address
admirable
alias
brigand
caricature
chastisement
chauffeur
combatant
contumely
demoniacal
discourse
exquisite
finance
grimace
herculean
horizon
impious
impotent
incomparable
indisputable
industry
inexplicable
interpolate
inquiry
 lyceum
mausoleum
mischievous
obligatory
research
resource
superfluous
traverse
vagary
vehement
vehicle
virago
verbose
virtue
virtually

(For the correct pronunciations see Webster’s New International

Dictionary.)
We readily see that the proper use of inflection cannot help but
give variety and contrast to our speech, and this aids immeasurably
in overcoming the persistent use of monotones.
We shall take up the different kinds of inflection and illustrate them
with appropriate exercises. The student should consider the aim and
value of each kind of inflection and then proceed to practice orally
the exercises, listening intently to his voice to see that it responds.

Kinds of Inflection
Falling Glide in the voice indicates a complete and positive
assertion. For example:
 “The Prince’s banner wavered, staggered backward,
hemmed by foes!”

A command, although punctuated with a question mark, is

rendered with a falling glide in the voice. For example:

“Halt! who goes there?” “Speak, what trade art thou?”

Rising Glide in the voice indicates incompleteness and doubt. For

example:

“How ‘the fellow by the name of Rowan’ took the letter,

sealed it up in an oilskin pouch, strapped it over his heart, in
four days landed by night off the coast of Cuba from an open
boat, disappeared into the jungle, and in three weeks came
out on the other side of the island, having traversed a hostile
country on foot, and delivered his letter to Garcia, are things I
have no special desire now to tell in detail.”

Circumflex Glide indicates a twist in the voice which reflects a like

twist in the mind.

Well, I guess I’ll have to, since you say so.

Exercises for Inflectional Agility:

I find earth not gray but rosy, heaven not grim but fair of hue.
Do I stoop? I pluck a posy. Do I stand and stare? All’s blue.

—Browning.

I must have left my book on this table last night. (Read two ways.)
 There are three pleasures pure and lasting, and all derived from
inanimate things—books, pictures, and the face of nature.
—Hazlitt.

We are perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not

forsaken; cast down, but not destroyed.

What right have you, O passer by the way, to call any flower a
weed? Do you know its merits? Its virtues? Its healing qualities?
Because a thing is common, shall you despise it? If so, you might
despise the sunshine for the same reason.

Oh, yes, I begin to remember you now. Do you really think it true?

Yes, he’s a millionaire. (Read two ways.)

Breathes there a man, with soul so dead,

Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land?
Whose heart hath ne’er within him burn’d,
As home his footsteps he hath turn’d
From wandering on a foreign strand?
If such there breathe, go, mark him well.

—Sir Walter Scott.

Now clear, pure, hard, bright, and one by one, like the hailstones,
Short words fall from his lips fast as the first of a shower,
Now in two-fold column: Spondæ, Iamb, Trochee,
Unbroken, firm-set, advance, retreat, trampling along,—
Now with a sprightlier springiness, bounding in triplicate syllables,
Dance the elastic Dactylics in musical cadences on;
Now their voluminous coil intertangling like huge anacondas,
Roll overwhelmingly onward the sesquipedalian words.

—Browning.

Resolve!
To keep my health!
To do my work!
To live!
To see to it that I grow and gain and give!
Never to look behind me for an hour!
To wait in weakness and to walk in power;
But always fronting onward to the light.
Always and always facing toward the right.
Robbed, starved, defeated, wide astray—
On, with what strength I have!
Back to the way!

A very interesting and helpful exercise in the study of inflection is

the use of the one-word dialogue. The following scene, written by a
pupil, is given as an illustration:

Scene: Midnight; and the two are awakened by a noise.

She. Philipe!
He. What?
She. Burglar!
He. Where?
She. Bathroom!
He. Gun?
She. No!
He. Sh-h!
She (fainting). Darling!
He. Huh! Cat! (catching her).
 It is by use of tone and inflection that the following exercises are
properly rendered.

How are you to-day? Ha. (inquiry, surprise).

I say how are you to-day? Ha. (rising doubt).
Have you suddenly become deaf? Ha. (indignation).
I have been trying to find out how you are Ha. (satisfaction,
to-day. laugh).
I am glad you heard me. Ha. (short grunt).
I am on my way to the store. Ha. (do not believe it).
Will you go with me? Ha. (glad to).

A Study of Pitch
Pitch is simply the modulation of the voice as high or low. In
natural speech we seldom have more than one word on the same
pitch. Note the constant change of pitch in a good conversationalist.
In listening to such, we discover what?
First: If one idea is expressed on one pitch, its antithesis is
instinctively expressed on another pitch. For example: “When our
vices leave us, we flatter ourselves we leave them.” “The prodigal
robs his heir, the miser robs himself.” “Excess of ceremony shows
want of breeding.”
Second: A quick leap of the mind causes a leap in the voice, or, in
other words, it causes a change of pitch. For example: “So you say
you are going to—Well, hello, John! How did you get here?”
There can be no definite rules laid down governing Changes of
Pitch. If we think progressively, giving ourselves completely to each
successive idea, permitting our movement of tone to be the direct
outcome of the action of the mind we shall have no difficulty in
modulating our pitch.
In reading the following selections, note carefully the natural
tendency of the voice to change pitch as the mind leaps from one
thought to another.
O larks, sing out to the thrushes,
And thrushes, sing to the sky!
Sing from your nests in the bushes,
And sing wherever you fly.

Then sing, O bird in the tree,

Then sing, skylark in the blue,
Sing loud, sing clear, that the King may hear,
And my soul shall sing with you.

I wield the flail of the lashing hail,

And whiten the green plains under:
And then again I dissolve in rain,
And laugh as I pass in thunder.

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance.

Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks,—

Ere I own a usurper, I’ll couch with the fox;
And tremble, false whigs, in the midst of your glee,
You have not seen the last of my bonnet and me.

If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels

had been churches, and poor men’s cottages princes’ palaces. It is a
good divine that follows his own instructions. I can easier teach
twenty what were good to be done, than be one of the twenty to
follow mine own teaching. The brain may devise laws for the blood;
but a hot temper leaps over a cold decree: such a hare is madness,
the youth, to skip o’er the meshes of good counsel, the cripple.
—“Merchant of Venice.”
 Extremely high: Half a league, half a league, half a league onward!
Very high: Hats off! along the street they come! The flag is passing
by.
High: Sail on, sail on, O ship of state!
Rather high: Now’s the day and now’s the hour!
Middle: In spite of rock and tempest roar.
Rather low: No stir in the air, no stir in the sea.
Low:

Sunset and evening star

And one clear call for me.

Very low: Quoth the raven, “Never more.”

Low as possible: O death, where is thy sting!

Study in Stress
If we read or speak aloud naturally and earnestly, there occurs in
our voice a succession of beats or pulsations. If these pulsations
occur at regular intervals, our speech will be “singsong” and
monotonous. Thus:

a
I wandered lonely cloud
as

and
That floats on high o’er hills,
vales

a
When all at once I crowd
saw
 o
A host of golden dills.
daff

The fault is that we are responding to the rhythm of the line

instead of the rhythm of the thought. There should be rhythmic action
of the voice, but, at all times, it should be in perfect harmony with the
rhythmic action of the mind. Therefore, we see again that correct
reading depends upon getting the correct thought.
It is very important that we have control of our voice in stress or
force of utterance. If a teacher requires one pupil out of a class of
twenty to go on an errand for him, there is but one way of clearly
expressing that thought in the following sentence: Thus:

Will you please return this book to the library?

If we make prominent any other word than “you,” we shall not be

clear as to who shall return the book. Read the above sentence in as
many ways as there are different meanings.
Practice reading aloud the following with especial attention to
stress. Be sure that the action of the voice corresponds to the action
of the mind. Stress is indicated by italics.

Rouse, ye Romans! Rouse, ye slaves!

Worcester, get thee gone, for I do see

Danger and disobedience in thine eyes.
You have good leave to leave us; when we need
Your use and counsel, we shall send for you.

—Shakespeare.
Abraham Lincoln used scripture quotations very frequently and
powerfully.