Sample Reading Comprehension - 3 | English Language for Grade 10 PDF Download

Passage  - 1

Inside, the place was almost dark. It was a shabby pawnshop, and behind the counter lounged a shabby man with an unshaven face. After making payment, he noted that he still possessed some coins. The most decent thing would be to give them away.
He thought of this as he left the shop and began to cross the street. His mind was wandering, and he was less watchful. Suddenly, a carriage appeared immediately in his path. The horse's head loomed above his own. He whirled aside involuntarily and went on. His movement had been too swift for him to realize in which direction he had turned. He was unaware that he crossed the street backward instead of forward. He turned a corner, turned another, and suddenly understood, after walking down the street, that he was in a strange place and had lost his bearings.
He could not be far from his lodgings, but he felt like a blind man turned out of the path he knew. He would not stop and address anyone. He could not be certain to whom he might find himself speaking. He would wander until he came upon a clue. He went on.
He stopped near a bridge and leaned upon the walls, looking down.
As he drew back, he heard something fall with the tinkling sound of coin on the pavement. When he had been in the pawnbroker's, he had taken the gold and thrust it carelessly into his waistcoat pocket, thinking it would be easy to reach when he gave it to a beggar. Some movement he had made in bending had caused a coin to slip out, and it had fallen upon the stones.
He did not intend to pick it up, but he heard a shuffling movement near him. As he bent to listen to it, a small head, covered with brilliant red hair, thrust itself out, a small face turning to look up at him slyly with deep-set black eyes. It was a girl, about twelve years old. She pointed with a chapped and dirty hand at the coin. "Pick it up," he said. "You may have it."
Her wild shuffle forward was an actual leap. The hand snatched at the coin. She was evidently afraid that he was insincere or would change his mind. The next minute she was on her feet and ready for flight. "Stop," he said. "I've got more to give away."
She hesitated, not believing him, yet feeling it madness to lose a chance. "More?" she gasped in a street-strained voice. Then she drew nearer to him, and a change came upon her face. It made her look oddly human. "Gawd, mister!" she said. "You give away a coin like it was nothin'—an' yer've got more!"
She was, for her years, so ugly and hardened in voice, skin, and manner that she fascinated him. He stood and stared at her. "Do you know where we are?" he asked glumly.
She sidled nearer, her sharp eyes on his face. "I bin watchin' yer," she said. "I sat down and pulled the sack over me 'ead to breathe inside it an' get a bit warm. I watched yer through a 'ole in me sack. You looked all turned 'round. Come along er me an' I'll show yer the way. If yer've give me that coin straight, I'll go with yer myself. Come on, mister."

"Honey! Pure, sweet honeeeeeeeeey!"
The vendor lady's shrill voice echoed in the quiet Saturday afternoon in Kathmandu. People in the city had just finished washing their clothes, bathing their children, and enjoying a late morning meal. As I tried to read a book lying on my straw mat in the balcony, my eyes got heavier under the influence of the warm April sun. The vendor's voice echoed in my ears like a lullaby.
"Child! Is your mother home?" The honey-seller was already in the balcony, and she was not just speaking in my imagination.
"Nah. Did you know Ma?" I asked the middle-aged woman who was hiding half of her face with her sari and still carrying a big jar of honey as if it were her infant child.
"She bought a kilo of honey for you from me all the time," the woman spoke between her breaths, still standing. "Only pure, sweet honeeey—the best kind for best lady."
I thought about all these street vendors who swore by my mother's character. This vegetable-seller always gave Mother the freshest-looking cauliflowers on a discount. Even the peanut-seller gave Mother extra handfuls of nuts when she made the purchase. The vendors always came on Saturdays when Mother was heard singing and washing clothes in near the tap. I remembered how she left everything on the big aluminum bowls and washed her hands quickly to make tea for the vendors. As I watched the honey-seller look around desperately for my mother, I understood why they all loved her. 

A man awakened in a third-story bedroom in a lodging-house in a poor street in London, and as his consciousness returned to him, its slow and reluctant movings confronted the second point of view— marked by enormous differences. He had not slept two consecutive hours through the night, and when he had slept he had been tormented by dreary dreams, which were more full of misery because of their elusive vagueness, which kept his tortured brain on a wearying strain of effort to reach some definite understanding of them. Yet when he awakened, the consciousness of being again alive was an awful thing. If the dreams could have faded into blankness and all have passed with the passing of the night, how he could have thanked whatever gods there be! Only not to awake—only not to awake! But he had awakened.
he clock struck nine as he did, so consequently, he knew the hour. The lodging-house servant had aroused him by coming to light the fire. She had set her candle on the hearth and done her work as stealthily as possible, but he had been disturbed, though he had made a desperate effort to struggle back into sleep. That was no use—no use. He was awake and he was in the midst of it all again. Without the sense of luxurious comfort, he opened his eyes and turned upon his back, throwing out his arms flatly, so that he lay as in the form of a cross, in heavy weariness and anguish. For months he had awakened each morning after such a night and had so lain like a crucified thing. 

"Oh, good, you're all here," said Pola as she walked into the community theater. She began handing out copies of her script to the assembled actors.
"This is a lot to memorize," remarked Gerhardt, flipping through the pages. "Neville, your character's name is Rhombus Fairchild. Boy, I bet he was picked on as a kid."
"You're Aces—what kind of title is that?" Neville asked.
"The play takes place in the 1920s, Neville," replied Pola irritably. "People used catchphrases like that back then. It means 'You're the best.' "
"If the play takes place in the past, why are the main characters fighting giant evil robots in the third act?" asked Nadezhda. Gerhardt and Neville gasped in surprise and started reading the script with renewed interest.
"Cool! I get to fire a laser gun," bragged Neville.
"Oh, man!" Gerhardt groaned. "My character gets killed at the end of Act III. Death scenes are the worst."
"Quit complaining, everyone," exclaimed Pola. "I had to write this by myself in two days while working a full-time job. It may not be Shakespeare, but it's good enough for community theater. I think we should just do the best we can with what we've got."
"That's a terrible attitude," Nadezhda said. "The proceeds from this play will be donated to charity, and I think we should try our hardest to give people their money's worth. Why don't we all work together to write a new script?"
"Fine!" Pola yelled. "I'll let you guys take over the play, and I'll save my efforts for people with better taste in entertainment." The three actors watched in amazement as Pola stomped out of the theater.
"Whoops," said Nadezhda with an embarrassed smile. "I forgot that she hates for anyone to question her talent as a writer."
"I'm just sad I won't get to wear a jet pack and use phrases like 'You're the bees' knees,' " Neville laughed.
"I thought doing a death scene was bad," said Gerhardt. "If we don't get a script put together by tonight, we'll all be in serious trouble." Nadezhda grabbed a notebook from her purse.
"This will be a snap," she said confidently. "What's a good topic for a play?"
"I know!" declared Gerhardt. "Neville and I will be lawmen sent from the future who try to stop a giant monster from destroying Dubuque, Iowa."
"Well, it is original," Nadezhda replied slowly. "But how would we create a giant monster on our $10 prop budget?"
"Good point," admitted Gerhardt.
"Here's an idea," said Neville. "What if Gerhardt and I play Elvis and Abraham Lincoln, who have been brought back to life by scientists. We use our skills to defend the president, played by Nadezhda, from the cast of the musical Cats, who have been turned into vicious zombies." Neville's voice trailed off as he realized that both Nadezhda and Gerhardt were staring at him with their mouths open.
"That's very ambitious," Nadezhda finally said. "I think it would be a little difficult for three people to perform onstage, though."
"You're probably right," said Neville.
"I hate to say it, but our ideas are terrible," Gerhardt remarked. "What are we going to do?" The three actors dashed off the stage and hurried outside.
"She's over by her car!" exclaimed Nadezhda. "Let's go get her. I'm not too proud to beg; are you guys?"
'' No way,'' replied Gerhardt. ''As far as I'am concerned, death scenes are bees' knees.''

Slouched down in her chair, Jessica watched everyone in the food court. There was an audible buzz of excitement. Everyone was in the middle of highly animated conversations. Jessica sighed heavily. She definitely did not want to be there; the mall was too crowded. But someone needed to be here to supervise her young sister Rachel.
Navigating through traffic wasn't usually that hard in the town Northern Hawk, but today, cars jammed the two-lane streets. No one had moved in the last 10 minutes. Miguel looked at his watch and drummed his fingers against the door's arm rest. He could hear crowds of people walk past the car, shouting and cheering. We have to get going; we're running late, Miguel thought as he looked at the driver.
In the food court, people were filing in and trying to squeeze into any available space. Just breathe. Nothing bad is going to happen, Jessica thought. People surrounded her table and towered over her. She was facing her personal nightmare of being in a suffocating crowd. Jessica quickly stood up and breathed in deeply. Then, a wave of panic rushed over Jessica. Where's Rachel?
Miguel smiled. The driver had finally made some progress in the traffic, and Miguel felt relieved that he could finally make it to his performance. The car came to a stop, and the driver rushed out to open the door. Miguel paused for a moment and thought, Breathe. Just breathe.
Dashing through the crowd, Jessica called out, "Rachel!" However, her shouting was muffled by the crowd. Jessica weaved in and out around groups, but there was no sign of Rachel at all.
It was dark in the backroom. Miguel's eyes had not yet adjusted to the darkness. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed some movement in the back corner of the room. He prepared for the worst when the movement came toward him.
With eyes welling up with tears, Jessica leaned against a column. Suddenly, she heard cheers erupting across the food court, and a voice boomed across the room. "Hi, everyone. Before I start my performance, we are looking for seven-year-old girl Rachel Stevens' sister. They were separated in the crowd."
Jessica immediately looked up, and there was her sister holding the hand of pop sensation Miguel Ortiz. She could see Rachel's smile reach from ear to ear. 

Sally was running as fast as she could. There was someone right behind her, and she didn't want to get caught. She'd been caught once before, and Sally had always been fearful it would happen again.
Sally was breathing heavily. She wanted to slow down, but the sound of footsteps was getting closer. The other person was catching up, and Sally still had a ways to go before she would be out of the woods.
Finally, Sally stopped. She put her hand against a tree for support. "This is it," Sally thought. "I'm letting it happen again." Tears welled in her eyes as the other runner passed her; Sally knew she had lost the cross country championship for the second year in a row.

D'Artagnan decided to practice politeness because he got into one mess after another. Aramis was a perfect role model. He spotted Aramis with three gentlemen in front of the hotel d'Arguillon and approached with a bow and a smile. All four immediately broke off their conversation.
D'Artagnan saw that Aramis had let his handkerchief fall and by mistake, no doubt, had placed his foot upon it. He stooped, drew the handkerchief from under the foot of the musketeer, and holding it out to him, said, "I believe that this is a handkerchief you would be sorry to lose?"
The handkerchief was richly embroidered with a coronet and arms at one of its corners. Aramis blushed and snatched rather than took the handkerchief.
"Ah!" cried one of the guards. "Will you persist in saying, Aramis, that you are not on good terms with Madame de Bois-Tracy, when that lady has the kindness to lend you one of her handkerchiefs?"
Aramis darted at d'Artagnan one of those looks which informs a man that he has acquired a mortal enemy. "You are deceived, gentlemen," said he. "This handkerchief is not mine, and I cannot fancy why Monsieur has taken it into his head to offer it to me rather than to one of you. As proof of what I say, here is mine in my pocket." He pulled out his own handkerchief, likewise elegant but without embroidery and arms, only ornamented with its proprietor’s symbol.
The friends of Aramis were not convinced by his denial, and one of them addressed the musketeer with seriousness. "If it were as you pretend it is," said he, "I should be forced to recover it for Bois-Tracy is an intimate friend of mine, and I cannot allow the property of his wife to be sported as a trophy."
"The fact is," offered d'Artagnan, timidly, "I did not see the handkerchief fall from the pocket of Monsieur Aramis. He had his foot upon it, and I thought the handkerchief was his."
"You were deceived," replied Aramis, coldly. Then, turning toward the guards, he continued, "I have reflected that I am not less his friend than you can possibly be, so this handkerchief is as likely to have fallen from your pocket as mine."
"No, upon my honor!" cried his Majesty's guardsman.
"You are about to swear upon your honor and I upon my word, and then it will be pretty evident that one of us will have lied. Now, here, Montaran, we will do better than that—let each take a half of the handkerchief."
"Perfectly just," cried the other two guardsmen, "the judgment of King Solomon! Aramis, you certainly are full of wisdom!"
The young men burst into a laugh. In a moment or two the conversation ceased, and the three guardsmen left after having shaken hands.
Aramis spoke to d'Artagnan, "I suppose you knew very well that people do not tread upon handkerchiefs without a reason! Why did you restore me the handkerchief?"
"Why did you so awkwardly let it fall?" cried d’Artagnan.
"I have said that the handkerchief did not fall from my pocket."
"And thereby you have lied twice for I saw it fall."
"Ah, you take it with that tone, do you? Well, I will teach you how to behave yourself," threatened Aramis. "I wish to kill you, but quietly in a remote place, where you will not be able to boast of your death to anybody. At two o'clock I shall have the honor of expecting you at the hotel of Monsieur de Treville. There I will indicate to you the best place and time." 

Unless one is wealthy, there is no use in being charming. Romance is the privilege of the rich. The poor should be practical and common. It is better to have a permanent income than to be fascinating. These are the great truths of modern life, which poor Hughie Erskine never realized.
To make matters worse, he was in love. He loved Laura Merton, the daughter of a retired colonel. Laura adored him. They were the handsomest couple in London, without a penny-piece between them. The Colonel was fond of Hughie, but would not hear of an engagement.
"Come to me, my boy, when you have ten thousand pounds, and we will see," he used to say. Hughie looked glum on these days.
One morning, he was on his way to the Mertons. He dropped by to see a friend, Alan Trevor. Trevor was a painter.
When Hughie came in, Trevor was finishing a life-size picture of a beggar-man. The beggar was standing on a raised platform in a corner of the studio. He was a wizened old man with a wrinkled face and a piteous expression. With one hand, he leaned on a rough stick. With the other, he held out his battered hat for alms.
After some time, the servant came in and told Trevor the frame-maker wanted to speak to him. Trevor went out for a bit, and the beggar-man rested on a wooden bench behind him. Hughie pitied him and checked his pockets for money. He slipped his largest coin into the beggar's hand.
The old man started, and a smile flitted across his lips. "Thank you, sir," he said.
When Trevor came back, Hughie left, blushing at what he did. Later, Trevor told Hughie about the beggar-man.
"That old beggar is one of the richest men in Europe. He was Baron Hausberg, a great friend of mine. He buys all of my pictures. He is a millionaire!" Trevor said.
"Baron Hausberg!" cried Hughie. "I am an unlucky devil. Please say nothing. I am so embarrassed."
The next morning, Hughie was at breakfast when Baron Hausberg's servant came to the house. "Please offer the Baron my apologies," Hughie said.
"The Baron," the servant said, "has asked me to bring you this letter.
The outside said, "A wedding present to Hugh Erksine and Laura Merton, from an old beggar." Inside was a check for ten thousand pounds.
When they were married, Trevor was the best man. Baron Hausberg came to the wedding.
"Millionaire models," remarked Trevor, "are rare enough. Model millionaires are rarer still!"